


The Fault Lies Not in the Stars

by RedCharcoal



Series: Art of Survival [2]
Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-06-27 18:53:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15691347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedCharcoal/pseuds/RedCharcoal
Summary: An ill-fated plane crash in the middle of the Pacific, a lot of truth, secrets, lies, and sharks, as Miranda and Andy learn the art of survival. If this sounds awfully familiar, it's because this is another companion piece to WastedOn's brilliant fic. She gave me her blessing to tell her story from Miranda's POV. While it's not essential, I highly recommend you read WastedOn's beautiful Art of Survival first.





	1. Ex Marks The Spot

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Art of Survival](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7365658) by [WastedOn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WastedOn/pseuds/WastedOn). 



**Day One**

_Of course_ , it's all Stephen's fault. I dress furiously, fingers a blur as I wrench on my dark maroon M&S pants and Anna Sui peach blouse. I complement the look with a wide, cloth belt, and a fringed scarf. Peering critically into the mirror, I assess myself, before applying make-up.

Despite the fact the Grand Marriott Philippines hotel-room clock informs me it's 3.17am, the ensemble itself is faultless. Unlike my useless ex-husband. Stephen is apparently soon to be married in New York. In _secret_.

That bastard. He's doing it to make a point. To spite me.

I stain my lips with Crimson Deceit, then screw the lipstick down into itself, slamming its cap back on with brutal satisfaction.

In a fit of bitter truth, I once told my ex that if he ever remarried, I'd be sure to send the bride my deepest condolences, and inform the congregation that he had a penchant for blond waitresses catering weddings. I should know. He cheated on me at mine. A lovely tidbit I learned during our divorce.

His reply was a string of personal abuse I've never been able to forget. _Cold fish. Frumpy. An aging, dried-up body that could satisfy no man. Emotional wasteland. Ice queen to the core_. Oh, I might have my flaws; indeed many. But Stephen Tomlinson remains my greatest disappointment.

So, it's decided. I eye myself for a moment. I'm doing this. Having the last word without saying a thing. I'm going to crash his _secret_ wedding, stand in the back when he says "I do", and smile a mysterious, taunting smile, and make him panic about what I've told his guests. I'm going to make him squirm for the pain he's dared inflict on me so deliberately. And then I shall never think of him again.

That's all.

* * *

I let myself into Andrea's room, irritated already by that substandard second assistant Bess back home, yawning in my ear and attempting to take notes. Andrea wouldn't have needed to have my instructions repeated; Andrea would have grasped my orders in the first instance, despite the fact it's now… I squint at my watch… 3.31am.

Instructions issued, I end the call, and lean over to wake the only halfway competent assistant I can remember in… how long has it been anyway? Not that I'd tell Andrea that; it'd just go to her head.

I've decided Andrea needs to return with me to New York. I haven't fully thought through why, but it's just better. It's always better when—

_She's… not alone._

_She's… naked._

My assistant clearly picked up some stray redhead last night. A _female_ redhead.

A jolt of shock, embarrassment, panic, and base sexual interest flood me in equal measure, and for a moment I'm not certain where to look. This…development…never once occurred to me in all my occasional thoughts about my assistant.

My mouth opens and all sorts of officious commands fall out, but I'm fixed on her creamy skin, before her sheet is jerked further up to her collarbone, and she reaches for her notepad. I take my leave, head spinning.

Some thirty minutes later, in front of the hotel, Nigel and Andrea approach. Now all I can see in my mind's eye is the teasing expanse of her skin, the dip of cleavage, the shadow of…

I am blushing. _For God's sake_. Am I a teenage boy? This is…is… I'm not sure what it is, but I'm deeply unimpressed. I glare at Nigel, and demand he keep Philippe, his flighty French photographer, under control at the shoot. I may have muttered something about sandals. I recall little of the conversation. He leaves us.

Now I'm stuck, waiting for my car, alone with Andrea. Andrea, my entirely too-pleasant assistant, who sleeps with shapely redheads for amusement.

My cheeks redden even more at the mental picture. I purse my lips.

Where _is_ that car?

* * *

Sleeping on planes is always a ridiculous waste of time. I leave that to my assistants. Ordinarily, I'd be working on my schedule, or the Book, or something of importance, but my brain is fizzing and hissing slowly, like a balloon losing air.

I'm trying to maintain my rage about Stephen's sly, sneaky wedding. It goes with his sly, sneaky personality, that probably involved more mistresses than I've had facialist appointments.

But I keep seeing _her_ skin. Oh, I've admired Andrea before this. It's hard not to notice when an employee has a natural beauty that turns heads. I notice Serena too. And, of course, that's to be expected. I'm in the business of creating beautiful things. Appreciating women exhibiting this facet is not unusual. It's not…salacious. I don't mean it that way. But who alive doesn't pause to appreciate that which they find most attractive?

Reaching for my bag, I intend to get my notes out, to work out my strategy for the next issue, but my mind slithers back to Andrea, and how she twisted away to get her notepad, exposing a supple ripple of back muscle under skin that lacked freckles or blemishes.

I draw out my eye mask instead. Clearly concentration is going to be reaching for the stars. I may as well remove the irritatingly beautiful source of my wandering thoughts from my sight.

The bliss of darkness greets me.

* * *

She sleeps the sleep of the dead. Barely after take-off and she's out like a light, the long lashes against her cheek fluttering in REM sleep. Andrea has exceptional lashes. I've always thought so.

I frown at that mental detour. Really, is it too hard to stay focused on a grudge? Stephen is the reason I am on this flight. Must Andrea intrude in my thoughts now at all times? I unbuckle my seatbelt, suddenly with a burning need to stretch my legs, splash some water on my face, anything but be here.

In the first-class bathroom, which is small, but not sardine-can, economy-class nightmarish, I notice the flowers. Just by the sink, to the left of the hand rail, it's a tiny bunch. I'm not even sure they're real. I lean over to inspect them, my fingers curling around the rail, when it happens.

BANG!

My entire body is flung up, but my grip tightens hard on the rail, preventing me from being slammed into the ceiling. Not so lucky, the flowers meet their fate…real ones it turns out, given the exploding petals raining down on me. My other hand joins the first, clinging to the handrail and I stare, in astonishment for half a second, suspended upside-down, trying to make sense of what's happening.

We're falling. Not just me, the whole plane, is spiralling downward. I'm slammed back to the floor. There will be bruises later, but my mind is not on pain. I glance out the tiny window just as a blackened, detached chunk of wing screams past.

The Wing. Flew. Past.

I gape. All right, not... ideal. 

The smell of smoke intrudes along the ceiling, moments later becoming visible, curling like talons.

We're pointing down like a javelin. We'll be in the water soon. The speed with which we're dropping, it'll be seconds. And then…that will be that. _Oh, God, my girls. My sweet girls._ My phone is in my bag, at my seat. Do they know? How much I love them? All those times I couldn't be with them, all those wasted hours at work in meetings… did they know? Truly?

This is _not_ acceptable. If I survive this, I will sue this airline for every dime. I arc my neck to peer out the window. I can't judge the distance but we must be really close now. The angle is too steep and the shuddering through the floor too erratic for me to risk exiting the bathroom. My feet are braced against the door now, my hand clinging to the hand rail. I'm waiting, my heartbeat thundering in my ears, and my brain replaying images of my darlings. Laughing, smiling, being tickled. The look on Greg's face the day they were born.

"They have your eyes," he told me, voice soft and loving. Back before we'd started fighting. Before I resented him, and he me. I can't even remember his bad points right now. Just the sweetness in his expression. "I see them in your face."

I see them too. Will I ever again? My heart clenches. God, my poor babies.

The smoke is thicker. I slouch down as much as I can, difficult given I'm in such an unwieldy position, hand up, clinging to the hand rail, feet braced in front. I try, desperately, not to think about what I haven't done with my life. All the fears, all the ways I hid my truths. None of it matters. I try not to think about the terrified screams I hear outside the bathroom door. In a way, I prefer being inside this cocoon. I don't want to see the frightened faces that go along with those screams.

It might be thirty seconds since the explosion, a minute at most, but it feels like an eternity. I feel like I can see my life like a car teetering on the edge of a cliff, rocking to and fro. My hands are perspiring; my hair clings to my head. It won't be long now.

Cutting through the speakers comes the captain's voice, sharp and stressed. He says, in his accented voice, just three words. "Brace for impact."

That's it.

My muscles tense.

To think it's come to this.

_Of course this is all Stephen's fault._

* * *

Who knew impacting water would be so jarring? It's like hitting the pavement. My arm is thrown off the handrail; my body catapulted forward to slam into the door. I don't even feel it, I'm so filled with adrenaline. The plane levels out as it plunges into the ocean, still on an angle, but not nearly as acute. At least it hasn't broken apart on impact.

 _Maybe it has?_ The thought chills me that I'm in some underwater coffin made for one. I gather my wits, stand, well, lurch given our angle, and scrabble for the door.

Water rushes in the instant that I open it, and a meaty hand of a person hurrying past slams into me, pushing me back into the bathroom.

It's dark beyond the door, the emergency lights are lit along the floor, water is coiling and swirling in at ankle level. A stampeding whoosh of people thunders past amid panicked cries.

I try again to step out, and again I'm pushed back inside by a burly body, dragging his wife along past me. I get a glimpse of her face. Whites of eyes, sheer terror, nothing else.

I'm small, far smaller than anyone at Runway ever seems to notice; I'm not built for shouldering my way into a crowd, and I'd give anything right now for a bit of burliness, some width to my shoulders and hips. Cruel irony for someone who has featured nothing but wraiths and waifs for decades.

It's been ten or twenty seconds, and we're sinking deeper. The water's now at my knees. That's too fast. It's now or never. Summoning every last bit of power I've ever possessed, I announce with the snap of authority " _Make way!_ " and throw my way into the press of humanity pushing by. Somehow, it works, and I'm enfolded into the rushing darkness and fleshy forms, sweating and straining forward.

There's only one pace. Only one direction.

Screams are behind me. People are thinning out ahead of me. There must be a way out. And then… then… _Andrea!_

I whip my head around, disgusted and appalled I've not thought of her in my panic. "Andrea!" I try to bark, my voice dying in my throat as I catch a shadowy glimpse of where I was sitting. There's now only bulkhead pressing down into Andrea's seat from behind where her head should have been.

A woman behind me presses her talons into my back and hisses, "Keep moving."

"My assistant…" I cut in, outraged.

"Lady, she's probably dead or already outside," a man's voice barks at me from in front. "Either way, you can't do shit about it now."

He makes a valid point but I have never wished to injure another human quite so much as this…this man. Well, not since an hour ago and Stephen…

Fuelled by that furious reminder, and propelled by the press of bodies driving me on, we are soon near the front, almost swallowed whole by water, that's now at my chest. It's harder to move, the wash from some unseen hole is pushing us back into the plane, and I can't work out where the tear in the plane's side is that we are supposed to get through.

A hand from the man I wished to kill five seconds ago reaches behind for me and hauls me to the left, where I catch sight of our escape route. I do the same for the woman behind me, snatching her hideous polyblend cardigan and yanking her into line behind me. We start to form a wordless chain-gang, propelled by muscle and fear, an aisle full of people silently showing each other the path out.

* * *

I’m free.

I surface, lungs straining for air, and gasp in heavy, hungry gulps. I gorge myself on oxygen, feeling high from the sensation. All around me people are being swept away, life jackets dragging them farther and farther out to sea. They bob about, like an oddly cheerful assortment of yellow corks.

Is Andrea among them? I call her name, ignoring how hoarse and rough my voice sounds. An absurd part of me half expects her to paddle over and make some inane comment, like "Did you need me, Miranda"?

No one replies. But my idea to call for her takes root, sparking a rabble of other shouts, voices, desperate, thin, and pained, calling out for loved ones.

I don’t see Andrea anywhere. I’d do anything to see those bright eyes appear; tolerate even her gentle, almost-teasing that I might have sounded a little…flustered at her untimely absence.

She did that to me once before. Left me. I saw the set of her shoulders and knew what was about to happen even before she tossed her phone in a Parisian fountain. A chill ran through me the likes of which I have never experienced before. But the silly girl came back. So, there’s a precedent. Andrea always could do the impossible.

Where _is_ she?

Treading water, I spin carefully around in a circle, eyes scanning every choppy white-tipped wave. She’s resourceful, I remind myself. Smart. She’s tougher than she looks. She’s…

The image of the bulkhead where her seat had been fills me with bile.

_She’s dead._

Nausea swamps me. I wallow in it for a few moments, fury warring with guilt, until the chill from the water finally registers when I tremble. No, no, this will not do. I refuse to die of hypothermia after managing to swim out of a crashed aircraft.

I take stock of my situation. I don’t have a life jacket. Because incompetence surrounds this airline. And… I didn’t think to look for one in the bathroom. I am furious with myself. It was probably there, too. For a second I wonder where it would have been secreted.

 _Enough_. I need a direction and a…

A cry goes up and I turn to see what has the attention of the gaggle of bobbing corks. The tail of the plane, well in the distance, has snapped in half and is submerging. The brief flare of flame hissing around it draws my eye beyond it. An island lies in the distance.

"Land!" I shout to the others.

They don’t hear. The wind is driving them even farther away. I set course and swim. I’m fit at least. The twice weekly Pilates and yoga sessions have finally come in handy.

It takes about forty minutes before I reach the shore. My foot steps onto the most glorious stretch of sand I’ve ever witnessed in my life, and nothing will ever change my mind on that. Soaked, freezing, and suddenly thirsty, I scan the area.

Where _is_ everyone else? Surely I cannot be the only one to make it this far?

I continually look around, hopeful in spite of all good sense, of seeing a certain assistant, with wide, eager-to-please eyes.

Nothing. No one greets me. I trudge along the shore, looking anyway. I don’t know how long I walk. It’s long enough for fear and deep distress to start flooding my veins.

_Damn it, Stephen. Damn you._

* * *

There’s a body on the shore line. Little better than a sodden lump from this distance, but the shape of it, the curve and length of it… it’s surreal. It couldn’t possibly be... I run, no, sprint, because I have to know. Is it Andrea? Is she…

She’s face down.

I skid to her side, drop to my knees, and turn her over.

Everything seems to stop as I stare at her. _Andrea_. Doing the impossible one more time. Coming back to my side yet again.

Her lips are blue.

I check her mouth, her airways, they’re clear. She’s not breathing. How long has she been here? She’s so cold. So, so cold. But it’s her. And…there’s a pulse. Faint but there.

The song _Stayin’ Alive_ cycles through my head, the exact pace one must use to perform CPR. I am methodical, ten chest compressions, then air forced down her throat. Rinse, repeat.

Lips colder than ice meet mine the first time.

There’s a twitch. Did I imagine it? Maybe it’s my mind tricking me? Or worse… Has she been here, waiting for me all this time, only now to die, once I’m at her side?

"Andrea. Don’t you dare," I order her. She will not die, not now. I won’t accept that. Another twitch. "Breathe, damn you!"

A violent movement this time, then she twists, just as I pull back, a salty water discharge vomited from her mouth.

I gasp. "An-Andrea?"

She rolls over and I stare in disbelief. "Look at me! Andrea. Don’t you dare close your eyes now. Don’t you—" She passes out.

* * *

 

We are sitting in silence, awaiting our rescue. Well by we, I mean me. I sit. Andrea lies, sprawled out, in the recovery position, hopefully some part of her enjoying the sun’s rays drying out her lovely Donna Karan skirt and Amelia Donovan blouse. It’s not a bad combination, come to think of it.

“You’ve come a long way, Andrea,” I tell her. Fashion-wise, she’s turned from sacrilegious to acceptable.

She lies there, her breathing mercifully even. I take that as appreciation of my words.

“Don’t take that as a sign I’ll be showering you with praise in the future, Andrea,” I warn her. “It’s not in my DNA.”

I flick sand off the knees of my pants, noting with a frown a tear near the pocket. I’ll add the $1200 price tag to the lawsuit my lawyer will bill the airline for this. Not that I paid for these pants, but it's the principle. The bill is going up more by the hour in my head, the longer I’m forced to wait here for our rescue.

It’s sure to be forthcoming, I remind myself, as a prickle of unease goes through me. It’s been at least three hours. Planes don’t just disappear without anyone being aware of it. We’re well overdue by now.

How is the photoshoot going? Is Nigel curbing Phillipe’s worst impulses at creative nonsense? There’s a fine line between genius and absurdism. We talk of it often. My loyal art director is the closest anyone’s ever come to truly knowing me. Professionally at least.

Does anyone actually know me personally though?

Caroline and Cassidy, of course. As much as two twelve-year-old girls can possibly be aware.

My eyes slide to Andrea, considering. In a way my personal assistant is the closest person to me. As far as knowing someone goes, she knows all my foibles. In another life, that would be called friendship. Or it would, if there wasn’t a paycheck involved.

“Well, Andrea, how do you like that? You and Nigel are top of my friends list.” I give a mirthless snort. Since I don’t do friendship well, that’s probably not the biggest endorsement.

I consider her face, slack, and still far too colorless. Reaching over anxiously, I check her pulse again. I’ve been doing that a little too often to be merely for her health. Strong and steady.

Good. That’s good. My eyes scan the horizon line, then the skies. Our rescue party seems beyond incompetent. At this rate the sun will be setting, and I’ll still be sitting here, monologuing with my unconscious assistant.

That is in no way a sound plan. I clamber to my feet. Enough waiting. If incompetence surrounds me, I shall have to sort this out myself. I think hard. I need to get the lay of the land; see if survivors washed up elsewhere. That does mean leaving Andrea. I frown and my gaze falls to her body, helpless and smaller than it’s ever seemed.

“I trust you’ll stay here, and make yourself useful while I’m gone, by remaining alive and breathing,” I instruct Andrea tersely, as though reeling off a list of commands on our mornings at the elevator. “Then I expect you to wake, ready to assist me in whatever is needed. Understood?”

Her eyelids twitch. Yes. All right then.

I choose a direction and begin to stride away. Forcing myself not to look back, I rationalize that watching over Andrea for another however many hours will not get us rescued or ensure our protection for the night. It’s hard though. Harder than I expected.

I do not look back.

After some time, I spy footprints. One set. About size ten or eleven. One foot dragging.

Relief floods me. Not alone then. Help is at hand. Excellent.

 _You see, Andrea,_ I want to tell her. _Being proactive gets results._

* * *

 

His name’s Derrick. The owner of the footprints. A perfectly polite Filipino flight attendant; I think I met him on the flight. I can’t be entirely sure. I was distracted then.

The man’s leg is hurt; his uniform is in shreds, but the glorious man has managed to start a fire.

"I’m Miranda," is all I can think to say as I lower myself gratefully in front of it to warm my hands. As I do so, he shakily tells me what he knows.

"We were off-course." Derrick stares dully into the flames. His eyes flick to mine. "I overheard the pilot getting angry about his navigation equipment giving misleading readings. Maybe for an hour. They’ll be searching in the wrong area."

And there goes my plans for a fast reunion with my bobbseys. Stephen’s untimely demise will also have to wait.

I sigh. I really should let that go. But it does feel like my fury for my ex is half the reason I’m still alive. That and my girls. I well up at the reminder. _Oh, God._

"You have children?" Derrick asks kindly, as though recognizing something in my eyes.

"Twin girls."

"I have a little girl. She’s beautiful. Five years old next week." He fumbles in his pocket and then his face drops. "I had a photo." His expression becomes even more stricken. "I…it was my only copy of that photo." He swallows. "But, it’s okay. I’ll just have to have more taken. When…when we get back. Soon."

"I’ll get more firewood," I tell him abruptly, instantly annoyed. “You’re almost out. We can’t let the fire die.” If we’re way off course, there’s likely nothing _soon_ about a rescue. I wonder for whose benefit Derrick’s lie was told. I hate being deceived more than anything. That’s why Stephen’s litany of lies was so galling. Why I’d felt blindsided and mocked when it all came out. Why his secret wedding felt like one final screw-you.

I trudge along the line between beach and vegetation dodging stubby almost-bushes scrabbling out their lean existences. I see no other fires, no sign of life. Not even fauna scuttling away. Odd. I wheel around, scooping up an armful of sticks, and head back.

Derrick’s skin is too pale, his lips turning blue when I return. I frown and stoke the fire to warm him.

"You’re injured," I state. "Your leg?" I don’t know why I made it a question. It’s pointing the wrong way. Obviously broken.

I reach out to inspect it, to see if it can be helped.

"Don’t ma’am. It’s a mess. Nothing to be done. The bulkhead hit it." His voice contains a tremble.

The bulkhead. Andrea was probably hit by the bulkhead. I swallow at the reminder. "Are you cold?"

He doesn’t answer, his eyes glazed with pain.

While I’ve been gone, he’s emptied out his pockets. A lighter, gum, a crumpled ball of sodden paper that looks like a receipt. An unfolded passenger manifesto, the ink running. My eyes fall to it.

 _How many_ , I wonder. Reaching for the page, I flatten it on the sand, feeling Derrick’s gaze on me. The top of the page gives the answer: One hundred, eighty-nine passengers and crew.

My stomach lurches. How many made it out? I saw forty? Fifty? Are all the rest still strapped to their seats? _All_ of them? What of the small boy, about nine or ten, cute dimples, and a Red Sox cap? Where is he? Or the elderly woman, peering out the window, talking excitedly about how she’d last flown in a plane as a little girl.

My lips compress. All those lives.

"Your airline is incompetent," I spit at Derrick. My rage is rising. "How the hell does this happen! There will be consequences!"

He stares back at me, sorrow etching his features. "I’m sorry, ma’am," he gasps out. It’s harder for him to talk. His lips are even bluer.

Guilt bites me. "It’s…Miranda," I mutter, because "sorry" isn’t a word I’m comfortable with. Apologies are signs of weakness in the cuthroat world in which I fight. I just…can’t. It’s just he’s sitting there in that uniform, alive and…the others aren’t.

"You were travelling with someone," Derrick says quietly, breath sounding thin and uneven. "A young woman." His face twists into pain. "I am sorry. For your loss."

" _An-drea_." I say her name and it comes out chopped up. She’s alone. I need to get back to her; get her here, warm her up. I can’t have her dying now. My hands shake at the thought and I bury them into fists.

Derrick eyes me curiously. I see the question in his eyes, but he doesn’t ask.

I don’t say "she’s my assistant". Because that’s a lie. Her personality overflows her job title. “She’s alive,” I say instead. “I need to get her. Bring her here.”

If he’s surprised, he gives no sign. He also makes no comment. I wonder if he thinks I’ve conjured her up?  Either way, his silence is a relief.

I find it’s churlish but I hate even looking at Derrick in his uniform. I wish I could burn the jacket he’s drying by the fire. It’s emblematic of what has destroyed almost two hundred lives.

Andrea is my priority, though. I need to get back to the beach, to her. I also have to make sure there’s nothing else to be found, while there’s still light left. Maybe luggage has washed ashore.

Not just luggage.

The thought has been darting in and out of my consciousness. What will I see? And what condition will it..or they…be in?

Derrick tilts his head as I leave. "S-sorry," he whispers again, waving in the general direction of where the plane met its watery end. "I know it’s not enough but…" The words are a struggle for him to form.

I see it in his eyes. He’s a good man. He’s devastated. The burden is not his. I hope he gets to see his little girl again and take thousands of photos with her.

I should put his mind at rest and take the haunted look from his eyes; tell him it’s okay.

It isn’t though.

I nod. "I’ll be back soon. Keep the fire banked."

* * *

 

Andrea’s still alive. But she’s now far colder than when I left her. She needs warmth. A fire. So I’ll just…I look into the distance, around a curve of the beach, then beyond to where I know Derrick and that roaring fire is.

Never let it be said that Miranda Priestly is afraid of hard work. With a sigh, I plant my feet, fingers under her armpits and slowly walk backwards. Dragging.

Thirty minutes later, I’m sweating profusely. My back is spasming. The fire seems farther away than it ever was. And frankly I don’t care.

She’s _alive_.

Her foot snags something…again… she’s been doing that on a regular basis. But this time she twists awkwardly, causing me to grunt. Jesus. My back is going to give out if this takes...

"I c-c-c…"

She’s conscious. Sweet relief shoots through me. I stop dragging, breathing heavily.

"I c-c-c—" She shivers in a way that engages her whole body.

"Andrea?" I say it sharper than I intend.

"M-M-Mir—?" She makes a wobbly attempt at standing then promptly face plants.

Well, her balance is unchanged then. I haul her back to her feet and eye her, uncertain as to what she will say. Will her first words be, _how could you have put me on that death plane?_ Or worse, so much worse, _why were we on that flight?_

I wait, my jaw working.

"Wh-where—?"

Well, that’s a much safer question. " _This_ way. You need to move. Now." I inject my usual steel, hoping she’ll obey by rote, and it works. She’s moving slowly, those stockinged feet dragging ever onwards as I guide her forward, my hand gripping her upper arm tightly.

Her head is at an odd angle, as though she can’t straighten it, but if that’s the worst of her injuries, she’s gotten off lightly.

We’re almost there. She twists her head to try and look at me, but winces. Definitely a neck injury of some sort. Probably due to the bulkhead.

The thought almost makes me stumble. She was probably _right there_ when I looked for her back on the plane. On the floor, perhaps? Under the shattered bulkhead, still in her seat? I could have reached her. Why didn’t I fight my way back to her and haul her out?

Is that what she’s thinking? Wondering why I didn’t get her?

_Well, Andrea, I listened to the frightened mob and gave you up for dead. You understand._

I grimace.

 _She’d have gone back for me._ The thought whispers around my brain like a toxic imp, spreading its mischief. I know it’s true immediately. It’s as certain as life, death, and taxes. Andrea would have flung herself down that aisle, over the heads of the stampeding passengers if she had to, screaming out for me, and drag me to safety.

And what did I do? Abandoned her.

Why? Because some fearful people let their need to escape infect me. They convinced me in two sentences it was too late. I have never hated myself quite so much.

My jaw firms into a scowl. Guilt tastes like acid. I deserve her condemnation. I can’t even look at her.

The fire’s right there. Derrick’s still beside it, but he’s let it die down. Damn the man. Doesn’t he understand anything about survival? Don’t they teach that to airline people or something? Or is it all just waving dramatically at emergency exits during pre-flight?

"Derrick? Wake up. You nearly let the fire die out with your—" _Oh_. "He’s dead."

For a second I can’t breathe as I think of his little daughter. Turning five next week. Suddenly I want to see my girls. I need them, I have to bury my face in their hair and tell them Mommy’s here.

I will not end up like Derrick.

Neither will Andrea. I can’t undo what I…what happened. I _will_ do better. I glance at her and my gaze fixes on her lips. The hideous hue is disturbingly familiar.

"He was shivering like you are," I say flatly. "Blue like you are."

"Wh-where is ev-ev’ryone e-else?"

How can I possibly answer that without stripping her of all hope? I say nothing. I will not make things any worse for her. Not worse than I’ve already done, anyway. I busy myself building up the fire, when she finally stutters out another sentence.

"T-tell m-my mom I didn’t d-drown. D-don’t let her kn-know that part. Just t-tell her I was t-too cold. K-k-kay?"

 _I won’t let that happen_ , I want to tell her. Or, _you’ll be fine_. But I loathe lies. Lies told to me. And telling them. I can’t promise her anything about her wellbeing. But I can promise her this.

I meet her gaze and say, "Okay."

 

 


	2. Miranda’s Choice

 

**DAY TWO**

 

I wake as the sun pokes over the horizon…in my case, almost literally, pokes right in my eye. There’s something to be said for being right at sea level—no extraneous lazing about allowed here. Unlike _some_ people. My gaze fearfully slides to Andrea. She’s still on her side; her head now burrowed into Derrick’s folded jacket.

“Andrea, wake up. You’ve had a day to rest. I now require you fully functional and alert.” My best La Priestly voice. It would chill the clackers in the halls of Runway.

 _Nothing_.

I roll over and crawl across the sand to her side, checking her pulse. Strong, even, steady. She’s pale though, but that’s not new. No change. Well. That counts as something. Besides, it’d be insubordinate of her to die on me without permission. Maybe she knows that.

I’ve been deliberately avoiding looking behind me, to the spot, twenty feet away, where I dragged Derrick before “bed” last night. I use the term bed advisedly. I neither slept nor felt like rest of any kind occurred. The weight of too many thoughts pressed in on me; worrying about Andrea and what the girls have been told. How they handled it. And I sensed a dead man’s stare on me all night.

At that thought, I stand, brush off the sand, and head over to Derrick. Hunger gnaws at me and my throat is dry and scratchy. I ignore both sensations with impatience. Duty first. Planting my feet behind his shoulders, I heave.

Pain sears through my lower back which is already enraged at me after yesterday’s exertions. I cry out and drop Derrick, reaching around to rub the small of my back. With a grimace, I lean over and try again.

This time it’s even worse.

He might be a small Filipino man, but he’s still heavier than my assistant and weighs two-thirds again what I do.

 _Please_ , I tell my mutinous body, _just let me do this. Just force through it. Remember when you were seventeen? Remember what you endured then?_

I grit my teeth and this time I suppress, through sheer force of will, the agony and lurch Derek’s body away from our camp. There’s a small inlet around the bend in the shore line. After some huffing and grunting, I manage to leave him there, far from the shore line, straight and ordered. I fold his arms neatly across his chest because it seems the respectful thing to do, and consider offering a prayer for him, even though it goes against my grain. There’s a good reason I’m an atheist. Instead, I pause for a long moment, and wish his little girl a good and happy life that won’t be too stained by her father’s loss.

I turn and stare at the sea. The way the cove is shaped seems to lure the waves in. They’re stronger here, all churned up like a blender set to ‘full’. That just reminds me of how much Caroline loves her strawberry smoothies for breakfast. Cassidy prefers banana. I hope Greg is looking after them. Not letting them fret too much. They have a tendency to work each other up. I hope he remembers that.

My stomach growls again, well, more than that; it churns. Gnaws like talons.

 _Fine, fine. I will look for food._ But first, I need to ensure Andrea needs no further assistance.

Maybe she’s woken up since I left her? I quicken my pace.

I round the rocky corner and gaze along the main shore line. Even at this distance, I see her posture is unchanged. Well, I might live on hope, but there’s a limit.

When I reach her side, I check her pulse. “Andrea? Could you open your eyes for me today? Hmm? Getting your boss to do everything is not what your contract stipulates, you know.”

I smirk until I notice the yellowing wet patch spreading between her legs. _Oh_.

Wouldn’t it be nice if this could be like in the movies where unconscious people ‘hold it’ for days on end?

I sigh. It’s just pee, for God’s sake. And it’s not like I haven’t dealt with all this before with my daughters. But still. I hesitate. If I wait long enough, maybe she’ll wake up and take care of her hygiene requirements herself?

I give Andrea a hopeful look and wait a few moments.

_Or not._

Fine. I remove Derrick’s jacket from under Andrea’s head, flapping it out straight and place it beside me, like a surgeon prepping her tools. Unzipping her skirt at the side, I ease it down her legs, admiring the material's cut. Really, Donna Karan has done an excellent job with this collection. The seams alone look sturdy enough to survive a gale. There’s not a tear or nick in sight. I’ll have to send her a note on my return. _“Delighted to confirm your A-line holds its form well under Robinson Crusoe conditions. M.”_

Pointedly not looking at anything Andrea would prefer I not see, I shift the jacket to cover her lap, then find the edges of her panties and remove them too.

After a quick dip of Donna Karan’s finest offering in the sea, the skirt is clean. Andrea’s black La Perla panties follow suit. Within minutes, both items have been staked to kindling sticks planted in the sand, and are drying by the fire.

The kindling sticks give me an idea. Rooting around my wood pile, I find the longest stick I can, and rub one end against a rock, forming a point. Perhaps breakfast isn’t that far away after all.

“Do you enjoy fish, Andrea?” I inquire as I work. My stomach’s own approving grumble reminds me I’d eat anything right now. Curiously, the moisture of the flesh in my imaginary future breakfast is something I crave almost as much.

Swallowing feels only dry and dusty now. Like I’ve been licking sand and ash.

Andrea doesn’t reply. Funny how much I miss her chattering existence.

Heading for the shore line, I walk until I see the small ripple of lightly cresting waves, indicating a sandbar. Somewhere for me to stand without being too deep, while I get a good look at my prey. I try to remember any wildlife documentaries I’ve watched with the girls. Or that Bear man, Grylls? Is there some special technique required for spear fishing? Surely not. Besides, I’ve survived a three-hour-long Jackson Leinert showing of polka-dot boots. This cannot possibly be harder.

* * *

 

It is. After a few hours of fruitless energy expended on the darting creatures, I stagger back to camp, defeated. I sling down my sharpened stick and turn to Andrea. “I’m afraid seafood’s off the menu today. I hope you’re not too disappointed.”

She says nothing. Her pulse, her breathing, her coloring remain the same.

Hmm.

Finding her garments now dry, I slip them on her again, do up her skirt, then return the shielding jacket to behind her head.

“There, good as new.” I regard her. “If you tell anyone I did this, I will deny it. We can pretend you were like one of those movie coma patients.”

She says nothing.

_Wise girl._

It’s past midday. I feel weaker, and am well aware that’s not going to improve as the day goes on. I need to properly assess the resources available. In some ways this is no different to running a magazine. Find your resources. Deploy your resources. I explain this concept, which is growing on me by the minute. Finally, I have a measure of control.

“You see what I’m saying? Managing an island or controlling Runway, it’s all the same concept. I hope you’re listening, Andrea. This could be important one day. When you’re home, and you have future plans down the track. It’s all simply management.”

At that moment, it feels inconceivable for us not to get home; for Andrea not to shine and grow. I wonder about her family situation. She hasn’t mentioned her father in some time. I frown, remembering some form of emergency leave a year back. Was there…a funeral? I do recall a brother in the picture. And some boyfriend? Before Paris? Except, if Andrea’s picking up random redheads, it's likely my information is woefully out of date.

My cheeks redden at the reminder of how I found her two mornings ago… _was it really only that long?_ I sigh at myself. _Priorities, Priestly_. I must scout now. Assess fully the island, and what it has to offer. I glance at Andrea.

“You know the rules. You will stay here. You will not die. And we will discuss your need to keep sleeping away the day when I return.” Leaning forward, I lower my voice to a softer tone. “Okay, Andrea? I’ll be back soon.”

* * *

 

The island is small, I realize as I work my way, barefoot, up one rocky incline to its peak. It lacks any natural water sources, no fruiting trees, nothing remotely vegetable-like, and no animals. Not even insects buzz around as I clamber up and down the crevices, rocks, and beaches on the far side.

Most importantly, there are no other people. It’s about as barren as Runway chairman Irv Ravitz’s soul. Which, regretfully, may be an understatement.

On my return, I recount this to my still-sleeping assistant, unable to prevent myself stroking the hair which has flowed into her face, curling it around one ear.

Andrea doesn’t seem interested in my tales. She’s looking a lot less white, though, I’m satisfied to see. Which is good. I need her stronger, especially for tomorrow.

“Well,” I say as I review her. “I’ve found us a better camp. It’s higher up, there’s some shelter from a rocky outcrop, but we can still look down to this part of the island. Beach views, Andrea,” I drawl. “I’m sure you’ll appreciate that. Besides, we should be closer to trees for firewood, and I just don’t like being so exposed down here. Of course, my main issue is getting you up there.” I gaze down at her. “Any chance you’d volunteer to help?”

Silence.

“Well.” I purse my lips. “You are nothing if not consistent.”

The sun’s starting to edge down in the sky. I’m still starving. But Andrea’s a little better, I think. So, I’ll get some firewood, get our heat source stoked up. And try to get the sleep I was denied last night.

The next four hours are spent thinking of my girls. Somewhat pathetically, I lick at the moisture of my faint tears, and desperately wonder what my darling girls are doing now.

I don’t get much sleep at all.

 

* * *

 

 

**DAY THREE**

 

I wake, hungry, thirsty, exhausted, and feeling oddly warm in one hand. I realize I’ve been clutching Andrea’s fingers. Or did she clutch mine? At that thought, I snap my head to look at her. “Andrea?”

Not so much a twitch.

Oh. Well.

I extricate myself from her clasp. I really need food.

A certain smell hits me, and my eyes fall to her lap. “You know I’m not running a laundromat,” I tell her, eyebrow cocking, even though that’s exactly what I’ve been doing for three days now. This time, though, the yellowing stain is much darker. A sure sign of dehydration. Damn it. This is not good at all.

_I really am sorry, Andrea._

Well, that’s what I _would_ say if I was any sort of decent human. But I’m not.

I rinse her clothes lightly in the sea, and remind myself I’m the person who left her for dead on a plane. I also let Derrick die feeling responsible. A kind word would have cost me nothing. But I withheld it. That’s what I do. Maybe Stephen was right. I’m ice to the core.

 _Screw Stephen!_ If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t be here. And Andrea wouldn’t be in this state. _Or, you could have just ignored your ex-husband_ _’s wedding and Andrea would still be well_ , my evil little imp whispers in my head.

I scowl, as I hang out Andrea’s underthings on my kindling sticks. There’s a good wind whipping around today. Incredibly strong, judging by the whites chopping over the waves. These will be dry again in no time. Which is good. I don’t want to haul Andrea anywhere while inadequately attired.

“Standards, Andrea,” I say, with a wry tone. “No moving house while you’re not dressed for it.” In truth, I faintly tease because her vulnerability unsettles me greatly. If our positions were reversed, I would _hate_ this and resent her for seeing me this way. But it’s a practical issue. It must be done and that’s all there is to it. On that note, being practical, I add, “I need you strong today. It’s moving day. Yes, Andrea?”

She sleeps on; the whip of her La Perla snapping in the fierce breeze.

* * *

 

“All right, Andrea, we’re taking a stroll,” I announce, having re-dressed her and checked she’s as ready as possible. “It would be delightful if you’d join me, of course.” I wait, wondering if her sense of excellent timing will take hold.

No such luck.

“Fine.” My back is still brutally sore from yesterday; not to mention the soles of my feet are chopped up from scampering over underbrush and rocks barefoot. I had briefly thought of acquiring Derrick’s shoes, but my size-six feet would slide out of his tens like clown shoes.

“I wish you came with handles,” I tell Andrea, as I scoop my hands under her armpits. “Perhaps we should look into that. A new fashion line. The Handles Collection.” I tug her, and _oh, it hurts_ , so much worse, as all my strained muscles are re-engaged and protest like moody teenagers.

I wince, growl, and remind myself it’s only pain. I’ve survived worse.

Progress is slow going as I inch her along the rough path I mentally mapped out yesterday, edging ever slowly up to higher ground.

Walking backwards is the only way moving a dead-weight is achievable, but the result is that I stumble occasionally over the unfamiliar terrain. I am managing quite well, despite stopping three times for crippling back spasms, until I step on a pile of leaves.

Only the pile isn’t lying on the ground.

My left leg plunges into a hole, about a foot deep, and I fall flat on my back, losing my grip on Andrea. The knife-like arc of pain up my leg is nothing compared to the terror of watching Andrea’s body bounce, twist, and tumble. Her head and neck flop about, before she lands, stomach-first, in a jagged pile of rocks.

I half scream, half shriek, an unholy sound I’ve never made before, and scramble after her, every step further jarring my tortured ankle. I reach her in an inelegant skid.

Turning her over, red is all I see at first. Blood covers her skirt, her blouse. I wrench up her shirt, exposing a hand-length gash, deep and ragged, scored above her belly-button.

I stare at it, and the softest whisper of _“fuck”_ drops from my lips. So Andrea survives a bulkhead hitting her, a plane crash, an ocean swim, almost drowning, but now _I_ almost kill her?

 _Almost kill her again_, my demonic imp whispers in my ear. _Don_ _’t forget how you never went back for her the first time._

As if I could forget that.

My hands are covered with her blood, and I don’t know what to do. Running a magazine, puzzling out pieces, no matter what I convinced myself of before, it’s _nothing_ like this. It’s not…it’s not like this.

I, Miranda Priestly, have no damned clue what to do.

Pressing my hand futilely over that gash, blood spills out between my fingers. There’s so much of it. I examine my own clothing. I could use my pants as some sort of bandage, but they aren’t thick enough. Blood would be through it in minutes.

A strangled sob spills out of my lips, a sign of my rising panic, and fury fills me instead. Now’s _not_ the time to lose it. Andrea needs me.

_Think!_

_Derrick_. If I used all his clothing, all of it, shirt, pants, hell, socks, all folded and packed down tight, maybe it would be enough? I glare at Andrea, even as my fingers tremble over her wound.

“This is no time to die,” I warn her. “I have to fetch you bandages, and you must not bleed out while I’m gone. Do you hear me? Is that quite clear? Now I will loan you my pants, but I’ll be requiring them back when I fetch something thicker for you.”

I stand, shakily shucking my M&S Spring/Summer collection flared pants. As they reach my feet, I gasp. My left ankle is purple and swollen. Well, _great_. Add it to my list of annoyances. It’s the least I deserve for almost killing Andrea.

Gently, I pull her off the rocks, laying her on the path’s incline. I remove her skirt which is soaked with blood. As quickly as I can manage, I tie the legs of my pants around her stomach then knot them. Just as I predicted, the blood seeps through almost immediately. It’s slower though. Just a little. I’ve bought us a small amount of time.

I run like I haven’t in years. I fly down the slope, back toward the beach, ignoring the wrenching stab of pain in my ankle with every step. Twisted or sprained, I don’t care. I dodge a branch of a tree, push past a scratchy bush, slither past two rocks and hit sand. Then, with no impediments beyond the skin and muscle in my body, I pump my arms and legs till they feel raw. I pound down the sand, as wrenching pain spirals up from my ankle, toward the cove where I left Derrick. I hope like hell he hasn’t been washed away; but with the wilder weather today, especially in that choppy tidal inlet, anything’s possible.

Even if I get to him, it may not be enough, I warn myself. Derrick wore a thin outfit. A typical airline uniform. The jacket I’d been using for Andrea’s pillow might be better; it’s thicker. But it’s the wrong shape. Pants are ideal. And we might need that jacket later for warmth if the weather changes. Planning ahead is essential.

My breath is coming in jagged, stabbing gasps; I’m dizzy from lack of food and the exertion, and my throat’s so dry and wretched, I keep wanting to cough.

I skid around the bend, into the cove and my breath catches, turning from puffed gasps into grotesque, choking ones.

Derrick’s there. But he’s not alone.

There’s a sea of yellow bobbing in front of me, swept into the cove on the tide. 

Before me are dozens and dozens of passengers. Maybe forty?  _Have they been here all day or just arrived? Does it matter?_

Their bodies are decaying, blue lips, and several are bloated. Crimson, sunburnt skin is peeling. Sightless gazes stare at me, bodies still bobbing in their life jackets, like some ghoulish mockery.

_Oh God._

I fall to my knees, and dry retch. There’s nothing inside to throw up. It doesn’t matter. I retch again and again.

A flash of red catches my eye. _Oh no. No, no, no!_ I glare at the source, in rage with the universe. A Red Sox cap is on the head of a little boy. The one I’d seen on the plane. He’s on his back, lying on the shoreline in an odd puzzle of a shape, beside another man in jeans.

My eyes settle on the jeans, unable to absorb the child any longer. _Focus_ , I tell myself. Those jeans are thick, heavy, ideal for purpose, and a far superior material to Derrick’s thin dress pants.

Swallowing back the bile that still presses against my throat, urging me to vomit again, I force myself forward on shaky legs.

 _The dead cannot be saved_.

With the efficiency of a Formula 1 pit-stop mechanic, I’m on my knees, shucking off the dead man’s enormous soggy sneakers, then undoing his belt with a practiced flick, before wrenching down his denim. I pause and stare at the belt for a moment. My eyes flick to Derrick, higher up on the sand, out of the water’s clasp. He also wears a sturdy belt. An idea forms.

Well. All right. I dump the man’s sodden jeans and belt into a heap and rush to Derrick. I whip off his belt, too, and return to my stash.

 _The dead cannot be saved_. My mantra keeps me focused.

Andrea cannot be allowed to lose too much blood. What did I read somewhere? Four liters and a person’s dead? How much has she lost? One? Two?

No time. Faster. _Faster!_

Clothing flipped onto my shoulder, I’m about to run once more when the flash of red catches my eye again. My heart slams against my chest as I stop to regard the dimple-cheeked boy. He’d been so full of life. Now look at him.

I take one step toward him, then three, and finally lean forward, to remove his cap. I hope he understands. It could be useful. A cup, maybe, or to…

His eyelashes flicker.

I gape.

He’s _alive_? _How?_

Dropping the clothes once more, I drop to a crouch and check his pulse. So thready; barely there. But it’s definitely thudding away. He’s gray though, colder than ice. I lower my cheek against his mouth. Not even a hint of breath.

 _The dead cannot be saved_.

No, but the living can.

 _What do I do?_ I could try and save him, but there’s Andrea. She’s definitely alive. This boy is knocking at death’s door. Pounding on it, more like.

“Sixty seconds,” I tell him, ripping off his life vest, and checking his airways. “I will give you one minute to be a miracle. You can do it.”

I begin CPR, I press my lips to his, I thump his little chest, I do it while whispering. _Come on, come on._

Nothing happens. I stop and hold my breath, waiting. Well, what did I expect? I only gave him a minute. I could give him another minute. Five? Five minutes could be the choice between life and death, couldn’t it?

Well?

 I’m in agony. Andrea needs me. She hasn’t much time left. Every second, her life blood flows out of her.

My tears plop onto his little face, as I know what my decision will be. It’s Andrea. It’s always going to be Andrea. A tag is sticking up at the back of his shirt, and without even thinking, I tuck it back in, like any mother would, catching sight of a name in black, thick handwriting. _Toby_.

“Forgive me, Toby.” More tears land on his cheek. I lay him down, purse my lips into a grim line, and pick up the handful of clothes.

I stumble into a shaky run, flying back to Andrea. Andrea who is definitely alive. Or was, at least, when I left her.

 _What if she_ _’s gone_ _?_ that annoying voice in my head demands. _What if you_ _’ve just left them both for dead?_ _And you could have killed Andrea. All for your own selfish desires to hurt your ex-husband._

I’m crying openly now, salt water streaking down my cheeks, and I hate myself so much I can barely see through a wall of tears. My ankle is shooting white-hot pain up and down my body. I don’t give a damn.

Andrea needs me.

 _Toby needed you too._ _You let him die. You played God. You always thought you were one, didn_ _’t you? At Runway? This is how it really feels. Deal with it._

I hate that voice in my head. I hate myself.

Focus.

 _Andrea, be alive._ You _will_ be alive, damn it. _Don_ _’t make my terrible choice be in vain._

My sprint becomes a furious, wretched thing, flinging myself past scraping flora, and bounding over rocks. My bare legs are getting shredded and scratched, but all I can think of is how little time she has.

_Focus, focus, focus._

She’s there. In front of me. Her entire body is red-stained by the time I find her again. Because she’s on an incline, the blood from her stomach wound is now running down both her legs, and it’s an image I know I’ll never shake. I brutally wipe the tears from my eyes, and force my mind into complete, deadly clarity.

“Andrea,” I hiss, dropping to my knees at her side.

No reply. Her face is so pale now, she’s almost translucent. With trembling fingers, I seek out her pulse, and it’s…it’s… _oh thank God._

“Good, girl,” I tell her over and over. “Good girl.” I unknot and wrench my pants off her stomach, tossing them aside. Then I carefully wrap the jeans' legs around her stomach, relieved the owner was so tall. It allows me to knot them as best I can, below one hip. I pull and strain, making it tighter and tighter. Then I wring out her skirt, until it no longer feels wet, and slide it up her legs.

“I apologize for putting this back on you,” I tell her quietly, drawing it up her body, and start jerking up the zip at the side. “I promise there’s a method to my madness.”

The skirt is so tight at her waist with the jeans wrapped around her stomach that I can only just slide up the zip. Doing up the button, I’m satisfied. There’s no way either jeans or skirt are budging. It’s as tight as any compression bandage can be. Or it will be…until I start dragging her again. That’s the big problem. Fortunately, I’ve already thought of a solution.

“Now, Andrea, here’s the madness I spoke of.” I take Derrick’s belt, thread it through a few belt loops on the left side of her skirt and pray Donna Karan’s double stitching is as excellent as it appears. Then I loop the belt around itself and buckle it up. Hoop one, complete. I repeat this with the belt and some belt loops on the other side of her skirt. Hoop two.

“There. Didn’t I say you should come with handles?” I offer her an almost smile. “You’re good enough to take shopping now.”

Leaning forward, I slide my hands into each belt hoop, and give a testing tug. Everything stays solid and Andrea’s body lifts from the ground. Thank God.

Yes, she’ll drag at the feet and the arms when I move her, but not at the waist. I’ll have to stop often to rest. It will be much slower going. But she’ll be protected where it matters.

We might actually have a hope in hell of getting somewhere.

* * *

 

Andrea is appropriately situated at our new campsite. I’ve set up a fire; thanks to Derrick’s lighter. She’s warm, safe, and secure. She is not, however, awake. But she’s also not dead.

 _Dead_. I bite my lip. How long has it been? _Maybe, it’s still possible?_ How long can anyone stay alive in Toby’s condition?

I have to know. I’m going back. It’s the practical thing to do, I tell myself. Besides, I need to wash out Andrea’s blood-soaked clothing, not to mention my own ruined pants.

I don't hang around questioning myself. I fly down the path to the beach.

The next time I round the corner to the cove, I’m no more mentally prepared. It’s worse, actually, because there seems to be a dozen more of them. I glimpse the elderly woman who’d been so excited to be on her first flight. Despair rises up as I see their faces anew.

This could easily have been me. Or Andrea.

I run to the boy’s side, dropping to my knees. My fingers shoot to his throat, seeking a pulse.

 _Nothing_.

I try his wrist. “Toby!” I bark at him.

Only the impatient sound of rushing waves fills my ears.

Experimentally, I try a few chest pumps, a few more breaths against those small blue lips. But there’s something about his sightlessness this time that seems far more final than before.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him, using the word I loathe most. “I’m so sorry.” Pulling him into a hug I had no idea I was about to give, I rock him back and forth, taking him in my lap. An old Jewish lullaby comes to mind, one I used to sing to my girls when they were small. One my Papa sang to me before... _Before_.

I hum it for a few moments, but the rising wind tears it from my lips, dragging it away. It seems to be saying, _you are not wanted here_.

I don't blame it. I let Toby die. I chose that.

Pulling his little body up the beach, I lay him gently beside Derrick and kneel before them both.

“Toby, I'd like you to meet Derrick. He’ll look after you now, until your parents come and find you again one day. Derrick's a g-good man. You'll be safe.”

My eyes well up.

Hell. I don’t even believe in an afterlife.

I sit and bury my face in my hands and start to sob. It feels endless, the unremitting depth of it; my shoulders shuddering up and down. My grief is for everything, all the lost souls, and my part in being on this cursed flight. My own guilt.

It has _nothing_ to do with Stephen. None of it. What conceit. Then again, I was always superbly talented at denial. I tell myself I hate lies. But I don’t mind lying to myself when it suits.

What’s the line from Shakespeare? _The fault, dear Brutus, is not in the stars, but in ourselves._

This was my fault. All of this was my choice. And the guilt is now mine to bear.

My tears change, become less ragged, more about loss. Grief for my daughters who could soon be motherless because of my ego that refused to let Stephen win. For Andrea’s family who could be robbed of a beautiful, sweet young woman. And then Toby, who had a whole life to live. What was his death for?

Why was I forced to choose _that_?

Incredulity slows my tears and I glower at the unfairness of it all. Why not just take _me_? I’m fifty-two now… why let me live? Does that mean something?

Does it have to?

My Jewish orthodox father would have found some flowery theological passage and claimed it was part of God’s plan. But then the hypocritical bastard also threw me out on the street at seventeen when he caught me kissing my first (and only) girlfriend. So, his profound words are hardly worthy of further thought.

I wipe my eyes. Sitting here raking over my failings and scars won’t help. Andrea needs me. That's what matters now.

I rise, take one long look around at a picture of despair, and trudge back to the beach.

 _The dead cannot be saved_.

Andrea can.


	3. Real

**DAY 4**

I can’t move. I can’t swallow easily. My lips feel cracked. My eyes are so dry they hurt to blink. Shooting pains radiate from my back but that’s nothing compared to my ankle, which is presently the size of a house. Not a small house, either. One of those nice ones in the Hamptons.

I own a lovely house in the Hamptons. Two stories, excellent aspect, modern facilities. Like my spa bath. Ten jets, if I recall. I’d give everything I own to be there right now. I’d swap it for Runway. I would. And I’d insist on a clause, in whatever Faustian deal I’m making with the devil to get me there, that Andrea can come too. She _really_ needs to partake in a bath right now.

As do I.

A rinse in the ocean would work too, I suppose, but I can’t face the walk back down to the beach. Not just because of my injuries which, as of today, have rendered me weaker than Irv’s spine. It’s too close to… it’s forever tainted now.

I peer up at the empty heavens. Is rain too much to ask for?

What I wouldn’t do for some water. If I’m bad, Andrea must be worse; she had considerably less to drink on the plane than I did.

Rolling over, I look at her. It takes a moment for my eyes to focus.

She lies beside the fire, where I left her last night. She hasn’t moved an inch. I frown. Is that good or bad, medically speaking? Maybe I should try talking to her again? They say that, don’t they? That it helps?

We haven’t spoken since…since I saw the other passengers. I’d have been obliged to lie to make her feel better, even if it’s only to unconscious-her. I can’t look at that trusting face and tell her everything will be all right.

How can it be? How can anything be all right ever again? I ended a life to save hers, as surely as if I’d placed my hand over a little boy’s mouth and left it there.

She must never know. The guilt would kill her, the way it’s killing me.

I blow out a sharp breath.

My bladder prods at me again. I’ve been ignoring it for two hours. Frankly, it’s ridiculous how the human body keeps trying to rid itself of fluid when I’m so desperate for it. Besides, I’m not entirely sure I _can_ move.

Ten minutes pass. Then fifteen.

 _Fine then_.

Rolling over onto my knees, I stagger to my abused feet, and shuffle over to the small copse of bushes that I’ve decided will be our new bathroom facilities. Highly luxurious. Only the best. Compact dirt floors, exceptional views. Washing-up facilities optional.

My mouth makes a small, pathetic noise at the reminder of water.

I let nature take its course, unimpressed to discover obvious proof my dehydration has become as bad as Andrea’s. I wonder at my lack of fear at this latest turn of events. But what’s the point? I’ll be dead soon. All this indignity, pain, despair, and hideous guilt will be for nothing. All I’m doing is prolonging the inevitable.

There’s little doubt we should have been found by now. Andrea should be safely in the care of doctors, prattling on to her mother and brother. I should be with my girls before returning to my empire, terrorizing clackers, and reminding my art director that his lack of social life is a sign he’s a professional success. That _is_ how I stopped Nigel quitting the last three times.

Instead, clearly due to someone’s incompetence, I’m here. _We’re_ here.

_That part’s my fault._

Damn it. Standing with a great deal of effort, I fumble, and return my pants to good order. In the process, my ankle protests and I stagger forward, barely catching myself from falling.

Fabulous. I now embody the grace of a drunken ex-child star. I suppose I’m fortunate I was able to cope yesterday, when Andrea…when I was required. How would I handle things if a crisis struck today? Would I lie about, making small sympathetic noises while Andrea died in front of me?

My chest tightens at the thought. Biting my lip, my gaze shifts back to Andrea, limp, like a puppet with her strings cut.

Is she paler? Grayer? Maybe? Her eyes seem sunken. I haul myself back over to her side, and jerk down the zip on her skirt, pulling it away from the jeans bandage.

I choke. The smell hits me first. The bandage is soaked through with blood. I peel it back. Oh hell. That does not look even close to good. It’s angry, nasty, vicious looking. I wouldn’t wish this grotesque injury even on Irv, and I’ve wished that man a great many evils in my time. It’s not all just blood, either. The wound is not clean. That much is obvious.

How could I have forgotten something so basic? I know my mind has been hazy at times, a little…dizzy...distracted...but this is basic wound care.

I slump back, staring in horror at that awful injury. It’s far worse than I’d left it. How smug did I feel, explaining to Andrea how running a magazine and surviving an island could be similar concepts. Clearly, I don’t have a clue what I’m doing. I’m just some entitled, arrogant fashion magazine executive whose ego has yet again been running rampant.

Karma. I don’t tend to believe in it, but it does feel apt.

What on earth else can go wrong? What else can mock me when I’m at my lowest, and remind me of how little I can do?

Moments later a tell-tale smell reaches my nose from below Andrea’s waist.

_Of course._

I glare at the skies. _Charming_.

A few other words may have slipped out after that.

* * *

 

“I regret my outburst earlier, Andrea,” I tell her quietly. I’ve sufficiently calmed myself now to address the matter at hand, although it’s getting steadily harder to focus on anything. The dizzy spells are increasing. Moving around camp is slow and painful, punctuated by many stops to rest.

“I didn’t mean to take out my mood on you. I wasn’t even aware I still remembered half of those words.” I smirk, just a little, until my cracked lips protest. “Would you like to hear a secret? Nigel and I both had a considerably earthier side in the eighties. Usually it came out after deadline had passed and we found ourselves at the Oak Tavern. It’s not there anymore, but it was a lot of fun. You’d be shocked at what we used to get up to.”

The memories flood me of good times with my oldest friend, when we were younger and more foolish. He never said a word when he caught me once hungrily staring at a statuesque woman draped against a bar. I never said a word when he disappeared into the back alley with the dapper bar tender for twenty minutes to “smoke”. We both knew Nigel never smokes.

I was more careful after that. Not everyone is unobservant, nor discreet. Besides, if I never spoke of it, did it even happen? Like trees falling in the woods?

More merry self delusion.

I remember wanting that woman with a sharpness I’d never experienced before, and it shocked me to the core. I stopped drinking with my observant young art director after that. Besides, it was time. I had to become La Priestly. No time for distractions of any kind when one's empire building. Our close friendship slipped a little as the years slid by. But I miss him. And I love him. I should have told him. Even once.

I’m doing it again. My ragged, dehydrated brain flits about, finding comfort in memories, easing me far from reality, preventing me from focusing.

I need water to clean with. This wound cannot be left as it is; nor can I ignore Andrea’s hygiene. So, I also need something to hold water to get it to camp. Already I deeply regret my decision to relocate us so far from the beach. Maybe if I took some clothes, doused them in water, and wrung them out over Andrea when I…

A whirring noise sounds overhead, faint and mechanical. I crane my head, trying to see the source but clouds are blocking it. A plane?

A plane!

“We’re here!” I shout, before I think of the absurdity of my actions. My voice comes out hoarse, faint, and strained. I jump to my feet. Pain explodes from my back and ankle as I irritate every abused part of my body at once. Nonetheless I wave at the heavens like a lunatic, before realizing the trees surrounding us, pathetic as they are, would block me from sight. I need to be seen in an open space.

_The beach!_

I attempt to run toward it but, unlike yesterday’s adrenaline-filled sprint that was fueled by fear and terror, my body’s just not having it. I lurch painfully from side to side, with little speed and even less balance, as I attempt to clamber down the path. Thighs shaking, body trembling, I reach the sand just as the mechanical noise fades out.

 _Damn it._ I fall to my knees, too tired to move. Too tired to cry…or too dehydrated to. Now I have to get back up the hill, and I…

My eye catches something glinting in the water. I stagger back to my feet, and go closer. Easier said than done. I fall over twice, my legs are so wrung out.

It’s part of the plane. A chunk of the wing? If that’s there, what else might be?

I wade into the water, and despite the gentle waves this close to shore, I’m almost knocked off my feet. I’ve never felt weaker. At least, as I wade farther in, the water’s buoyancy is doing some of the heavy lifting for me. Closer now, I can see torn edges and scorch marks on the wing’s concave shape.

A larger wave washes it closer and knocks me clean off my feet. Breast-stroking toward it, I’m able to get a hand to it, and pivot it around in the water. It’s so light. Aluminum? How unexpected. Definitely part of a wing. Snagged to its ragged underside is a pile of mangled debris. I spy seat cushions, a life vest, a waterlogged red high heel, and a crumpled cardboard box.

The box is stamped with a brand of a catering company’s logo. My eyes widen. I snatch it, tugging it away from the jagged wing’s torn metal, and float it back with me toward shore. My feverish brain is running through every form of food that airliners take on board.

It feels like being smacked down by gravity when I push myself off from the water’s surface and crawl to shore with my precious cargo. Tearing at the box, which gives way in sodden lumps, my mouth is already trying to salivate, as my stomach growls.

Inside lies purple plastic bags of…potato crisps.

Salt and vinegar, to be exact. I gape at the sight. Is there actually a saltier product known to mankind? My stomach claws at me again and in that moment I don’t care. I tear open the closest packet, scoop a handful of chips into my mouth, and chew like a woman possessed. I choke and cough immediately, having too little saliva to help it down. _Christ_. _Slow down!_

I try again, leaning forward on hands and knees, eating much, much slower and methodically. My eyes water as I fight to get this nutrition into my body, chewing and chewing endlessly, before I finally attempt to swallow.

Well _nutrition_ is a loose definition for this.

After swallowing, I pause, fearful it will all come back up again. It’s a close call but no. Exhaling, I nervously finish another handful and then lick the crumbs in the bag. Done, I sit back and eye the rest of the packets, doing my sums. How long can they last?

As I contemplate my brain’s inability to do even the most rudimentary math now, a huge wave gets behind the wing and smashes it to the shoreline, before retreating.

I peer at it in surprise that it’s parked itself there for me, mind turning over its possibilities. Surely it must have some value? Even if I can’t figure what just yet.

Tugging it off the wet sand to higher ground, I’m astonished all over again by how lightweight it is. This could transport a great many items as a sled… if I _had_ a great many items.

Involuntarily, my mind darts back to the cove, and the…remains. There could be supplies. Clothes. Food or even drink bottles tucked in pockets.

_And Toby._

I don’t want to see him again. I can’t face it. It’d be better to just walk away.

So, that’s what I’ll do then. Drag my little box of food back to camp, and sit. And wait. And hope.

_What about Andrea? She needs more than just hope right now._

My teeth grind.

_She’s here because of you. In case you’ve forgotten._

I’m too weak to deal with that. I can’t go back there.

I can’t do it. I won’t.

_Coward. You always hated facing an unpalatable truth._

I frown. What truth? I’m well aware we’ve been left for dead on an island with limited prospects of survival. What truth am I avoiding now?

A shimmer answers me, capturing my eye. In the distance, in front of the path to the cove around the bend, a line of passengers suddenly appear, ghoulish faces staring at me. They’re in rags, bleeding, eyes sunken, thin, and distressed, barely human. They’re staring at me accusingly.

 _What?_ I want to snarl at them and tell them to stop looking at me. They glare back, ruined bodies as broken as I feel.

I turn away in revulsion _._

This can’t be real. I’m here, I’m alive. I pinch myself to check, but barely feel the pain. What if…if all of this, everything, is a hallucination? A worse thought occurs.

_Did I even rescue Andrea at all?_

My head’s swimming, I can’t think straight. It does seem astonishing, now I think about it, that she, out of all 189 passengers and crew, was able to wash up in front of me. What are the odds of that? Impossible. My stomach sinks.

It _is_ impossible.

But Andrea always did do the impossible, I remind myself. Hope struggles to get a claw-hold in my head.

 _What’s real?_ I can’t think.

Reluctantly, I lift my head again, twisting around to look at the part of the beach where I first found Andrea washed up, near death. To my horror, I see her body there, clearly outlined against the sand, broken and wet. A lump of dead flesh.

 _Oh! Oh God. I never saved her. She’s…_ I stagger to my feet, trying to drag myself over to the body.

I have to see.

Have I been trying to save a hallucination for days? Someone I dreamed up because I feel so guilty? Because the bitter truth is too terrible?

I reach her body, bend over, and my hand slices through air. In a blink, she’s gone. I turn around in shock. Gone, too, are the passengers guarding the cove.

I’m going insane. That has to be it. Madness. Lack of food and water.

My stomach growls. I’m dizzy. I stagger back along the beach to the plane wing and my sodden box of crisps. I reach for a second little bag, turning it over in my hands. Is this real? The weight of it under my fingers feels real enough. I open it and smell. The sharp vinegar, salty stench assails my nose and makes my eyes water. _Real_.

“You really thought a box of chips could just wash up while you were sitting on the beach feeling sorry for yourself?” Andrea asks.

I start. My heart’s racing, but then it has been for two days. “Why not?” I reply, taking a crisp, trying to sound unmoved. The potato crisp crumbles in my dry mouth and I try not to cough. “You did.”

“What if I told you a secret?” Andrea drawls. “You’re unconscious in the cove with those corpses. You’d know that if you’d even bothered to look properly at the bodies. But no, not you. You never paid them the respect they’re due. Didn’t lay them out the way you did Toby and Derrick. No, you took what you wanted from them, then treated them like they weren’t even there. How’s that decent? You know you’re not a good person, Miranda. Always take, take, take with you. I know. You used me until you took even my life. So this, all of this,” she waves at herself, “is just your way of making you feel better.”

I stare at her. “I wouldn’t imagine any of this to make me feel better.”

“No, you’d imagine me by your side in your little camp. You being the hero, saving me over and over. When the opposite’s true. You know the truth, don’t you? I’m dead. And you killed me, just like that boy.”

She disappears.

My head’s fuzzy and warm. Shakily, I try to stand. If my unconscious body is really in that cove, if my existence now is just a delusion, there’s one way to find out. And if I’m not there, Andrea needs my help. Either way, I’m going.

Glancing at the plane wing, I see the sled it could be. My smile is grim and cold as I push my terrors aside.

Andrea needs me.

* * *

 

It takes a few hours. I try not to think too hard about the details. All the bodies have been assessed. Searched. Laid out. One thing I know for sure, is I’m not among them and neither is Andrea. So, she’s back at camp. She has to be, I tell myself. I refuse to believe all of this is some grotesque delusion my fevered imagination has dreamt up. If it was, it wouldn’t smell this bad.

No. I’m not going to throw up again. What a waste of crisps that was.

Focus. Duty. Get it done.

I have a small but growing pile of resources on the middle of the wing that I’ll haul back up to the site. I’m doing this by rote, disassociating as I work. That way I don’t see them as people, don’t notice the smell, or that they’re starting to look…

All it takes is determination…and the mini whisky bottle from the elderly man’s pants pocket didn’t hurt either. I dared to have three sips before my head swam alarmingly. I’ll save the rest for Andrea. Her wound needs it more than I do.

I have quite the haul. How much is useful, I’m not sure. But the plastic shopping bags are a godsend. I’ve filled them all with sea water, knotted them, put them on my pile, along with the rest of my bounty, and am ready to head back.

Glancing back at the passengers, I eye them, row by row. They’re laid out, as dignified as I could manage. I refused to even look at Toby or Derrick. It’s bad enough both were in my nightmares last night, begging for help.

I should say something. Many of these people believed in…something. But I can’t think of anything. That requires hope, which I’m lacking, belief, which I never had, and goodness, which apparently I’m also sorely without. Grimacing, I instead give them all one final glance. 

“Thanks,” is all I can think to say. “Thanks.” I say it softer this time, and can’t bear to look anymore. Tugging at the wing, which I’ve now affixed with a lead rope made of knotted together men’s ties, I pull away from this disturbing place of death.

I refuse to be back here again. I hope they rest in peace.

Unable to stop myself, though, I take one final look back at Toby.

Hell. I really wish I hadn’t. The roar of the ocean seems louder now; it’s probably an illusion. I appreciate it drowning out my thoughts.

I’m halfway up the incline, tugging slowly on the wing, when I make the mistake of looking over my left shoulder to the beach.

Washed up on the shore, right where I first found her, is Andrea’s drowned body.

_It’s not her._

_She’s not real._

_Andrea’s back by the camp. She needs my help._

Focus, damn it. I try to remember the Thakoon Spring ’07 line-up, working my way from the whites to the dusky pinks, forcing myself to scrape my memories over the shape of the outfits to anchor myself. That was real, I know that much. How could I forget that Big Bird-colored monstrosity of a sundress he’d thrown in at the end like a playful afterthought. I snort. Was it to check we were still awake?

My eye falls to a jagged rock pile, dark red smeared across it and my amusement dies. Andrea is lying on it, crumpled, her sightless eyes staring up at me. How did she get back down here? Alarm fills me. Did she ever leave? Is that when the hallucinations began?

Leaning forward to touch her skin, my hand sinks right through her.

Oh God. I can’t take much more of this. I kneel on the ground, staring at this body, this woman, who is _not_ real.

“She’s who you chose to save over me?” Toby says, suddenly appearing beside me. His red cap looks unnaturally bright.

“You’re not real.”

“You could have saved me. I’m younger and stronger. But you let me die. Like her.”

“She’s not dead,” I want to scream at him. “She’s not!”

“Soon.” He says it sadly.

Furiously, I climb back to my feet, determined to prove him wrong. I sway for a few moments, weak and useless. But I’m not dead yet either. I glare at him. “No. Besides, you're _not real_.”

I ignore him, but he walks back with me anyway. At least he doesn’t speak again.

Half an hour later, I crest the rise and see camp. There’s a bright red cap perched on a stick where I left it earlier. A cap that can’t be in two places at once.

“See?” I tell him, glaring at the identical cap on his head.

“It won’t make any difference.” Toby shrugs. “You’ll kill her with your bad medicine.”

He’s gone.

He might be right.

* * *

 

It’s taken the rest of the day, given my current pace and physical abilities, but I’ve squared away the wing on the far side of camp, behind where Andrea is lying. I’ve cleaned her wound, sliced up several pairs of jeans’ legs to give her multiple bandage options later, and reapplied the dressing. Her skirt and underthings are yet again flapping in the wind, while Derrick’s jacket protects her dignity.

And I’m sorting out clothing and supplies, behind the wing; angling the piles so the contents aren’t visible should Andrea awake again. She doesn’t need to see passenger possessions. That would lead to questions. And I’m not keen on lies.

Not even to myself anymore.

Andrea woke briefly. I fed her lightly whisky-soaked mashed potato crisps, which she was able to swallow before she passed out again. I’ve also spied some berry bushes on the far side of camp. I’d noticed them before but wrongly thought the berries were flowers.

Are they edible? If so, things are looking up. I’ve given a handful a try. If they pass muster, and I live to tell the tale, I’ll incorporate them into our extensive island-vacation diet.

“See, Andrea?” I tell her. “We’ve already doubled our pantry. Crisps _and_ berries.”

She doesn’t reply.

I’ve returned to ordering the retrieved clothing, relieved to give my mind a focus. It’s a little like working in the Closet. Which is fair, since Nigel has arrived to help me sort it.

I like to think my old friend is an active hallucination, one I’ve freely conjured up because I miss him, not because I can’t stop myself from seeing him.

“Stripes or pastels?” I repeat back to him, as he prods my second-hand T-shirts collection with an inquisitive finger. It’s funny how he looks much younger; like back when we met each other and I lured him away from a designing career. “What an absurd question. Neither’s ever been _out_ of fashion or _in_ fashion. It’s the poultice for the masses.”

He snorts. “Poultice? Can you hear yourself, M?”

I roll my eyes but lean forward. “How _do_ you make a poultice?” I ask. I lower my voice so my unconscious assistant won’t hear. “Do you think it might help Andrea? Between you and me, I’m worried about her wound.”

“Miranda,” Nigel smiles as if it's self evident. “You make it from silkworms. Like a good Versace.”

“Of course,” I tell him. “Of course.”

Somehow that makes perfect sense.

 

* * *

 

**DAY FIVE**

Andrea’s injury is starting to close. Well, at least enough that I’m going to try an experiment of leaving it unbandaged. Maybe it needs sunlight now for proper healing? She’s still asleep.

The berries didn’t kill either of us. We’ve been eating them off and on. Andrea gets them in a paste form in the rare moments she comes to. Twice she’s been conscious long enough for me to pick her up by the belt loops and haul her to our luxury bathroom and, with my brief assistance with her clothes, able to finish her business without any need for me to press my burgeoning laundromat skills into action again.

Small mercies.

She says nothing at all during these times. I’m not sure she’s aware that she’s awake. Surely she must be, though? Not that it matters because, soon enough, she’s back in her own world, unconscious again.

I wonder where does she go in that dream-state of hers? Is she at home, watching some favorite show with friends? Or maybe she dreams she’s still at work, diligently running after my coffees and scarves?

 _I’m right here_ , I want to tell her. _You can please your boss by joining me in the present, if that’s not too much trouble._

Apparently it is, because all she seems to do is sleep.

 _I’m so thirsty._ Water’s all I think about now. Well, water and guilt.

It’s hard to look at Andrea for too long. All I see is how her condition is my fault. _My_ choices led us here.

Then there’s the choice I made that cost a beautiful boy his life.

The more I think about things, the lower I feel. Sometimes I think it might be easier to close my eyes and just not wake up. Not thinking sounds like bliss, right now. Maybe I should try that?

 

* * *

 

The first splotch doesn’t feel real. It’s like a fly landing on me. It takes a moment to realize I haven’t seen flies or any insects out here, so it can’t be that. My eyes flash open, just as the heavens start to open up.

_Rain!_

In disbelief I discover the skies have gone black since I’ve been dozing. A sharp crack of thunder booms around us. Drinking water! Scrambling to my feet, I head to all the bags hanging off trees and the plane wing, dumping out the salt water. I open their mouths like waiting baby birds, and watch with satisfaction as hastening plops of water hit the plastic.

“Andrea!” I call to her, desperate for her to share in this. She needs to drink. More than that she needs to share a moment of joy.

The light spitting rain turns into a sudden deluge.

Oh, it's bliss.

I gulp in mouthfuls, run my fingers through my hair, washing it, soaking it up. I strip off my clothes, having an impromptu shower, rubbing my skin, then stretching out my arms, feeling cleaner than I have in days.

The sensation is delicious. _Sublime_.

Andrea should experience this. I glance at her. Actually, she’s in desperate need of it.

Crouching beside her, I quickly strip her naked, trying my best to avert my eyes. “I do apologize, Andrea, but cleanliness is next to…next to bliss,” I whisper.

Leaving her nude to enjoy the heavens and rinse off a layer of dirt, I walk slowly about camp, eyes barely open, soaking in the experience. After ten minutes, I return, roll her to her side, hoping she doesn’t feel like a rotisserie chicken. “Backs and sides need to be clean too,” I explain, hoping I sound officious, like a nurse.

Sitting beside her, as the rain sluices off her skin and mine, I talk, my gaze pointedly into the distance.

“When I was a little girl,” I tell her, “my mother said I _hated_ clothing. I’m well aware how funny that is now. But she swore it was true. I was always shucking off my clothes at age three and four, and doing nude runs through the house, embarrassing everyone, especially if there were guests. I didn’t understand the point of clothes. Isn’t that ironic?”

I glance at her eyes, which are still closed, the lashes glistening under the rain. “Much the way you didn’t understand the point of fashion when we met. Oh, I saw it in your eyes, Andrea. I was a joke. Everything I stood for was beneath you. Frivolous.” I return my stare to the horizon. “I’m not without some sympathy for your position. I always knew it came from a place of ignorance. You have since educated yourself. As I did.” I smile at the memory. “You have more than educated yourself, of course; you have been sublimely _acceptable_. Better even than Emily was as my assistant.”

I roll her over to the other side, to get the full shower experience. She’s facing away this time, her adorable backside in my view.

“Why are you better than Emily, you ask?” I continue, snapping my gaze somewhere safe. “Well, Emily is devoted to me, to Runway, and to fashion. She’s everything I should want in an assistant, yes?” I nod to myself. “I used to think so too. But there’s something so addictive about showing someone who doesn’t believe, who doesn’t understand, the beauty of my world. To see the wonder grow in their eyes as they slowly start to see. In truth, I have been loving watching you falling in love with fashion. That’s just between us, though, Andrea. I wouldn’t share that with a soul. People use weakness against others in this world. But, honestly, you are, at times, my weakness.”

Sadness fills me at that thought. I’ve hurt someone I secretly care about. Someone good and kind and dedicated who has come to mean a great deal to me.

The rain is starting to ease off. Rubbing my eyes, I glance over at her then ease her onto her back, to give her wound a quick inspection. It still seems closed. That’s progress. I don’t like its color, though. “I’m expecting better from you,” I tell her sternly. “More healing, less lolling around enjoying midday showers.”

I lay Derek’s jacket on the ground and ease myself onto it, letting the sun peering out from behind bruised clouds dry us off.

After awhile, the brightness starts to drill into my eyes. I’m half tempted to don Toby’s hat but that doesn’t sit right. The thought makes my stomach churn. Besides, I’ve been saving it for use as a cup. It’s probably full now. Next time, when Andrea wakes, I’ll give her a sip. “Fresh water, Andrea,” I nudge her. “Won’t that be lovely?”

She sleeps on.

When we're both dry, I slip her clothes on, murmuring a small apology that she’s gone through this, promising I will be in denial about all of it. “This never happened,” I assure her and mean it. I dress myself. I’m resettled beside her, about to doze off again when she stirs.

Instantly I'm kneeling beside her. “Drink,” I order her.

She obeys, barely registering my existence.

“Maybe you’d like to wake up now?” I give her a hopeful look.

Ignoring me, she falls back to sleep.

Well, it doesn’t matter. As long as she’s alive, and we have water, crisps and berries, all is well. At least for now.

 

* * *

 

**DAY SIX**

A sharp scream shakes me awake from another brooding nightmare. I’m relieved as Toby’s accusing, sad eyes flash out of existence and instead I see Andrea not only awake, but standing. She’s near the fire, almost doubled over, hands over her wound, staring at blood now oozing onto her fingers and down her skirt in astonishment.

“Andrea!” I hiss in horror. Propping myself up on elbows, I glare at her. How could she be so foolish to tear at her wound like that?

She drops to the ground, rolls onto her back and looks at me, offering a pained “Nnn.”

Oh. She didn’t know she was wounded. I remember now. Still. She might have looked first before trying to stand, especially after so many days without using her legs unassisted.

My gaze scrapes along the bloodied trail behind her back to where she’d been lying. Her agonized foetal position won’t be helped by the lack of pillow.

Tugging Derrick’s jacket back into its usual place under her head, I try to sort through my wash of emotions. Relief, fear, guilt, now dismay. “Finally awake and in two seconds, you’ve ruined everything I’ve done.” My shadow blots out the sun as I crouch over her.

She whimpers, clasping her hands to her stomach, so I can’t get a good look at the wound. “Stop fussing,” I tell her, impatient to see how much damage there is. When her hands fall to her side, I wrench up her shirt to her lower ribs, tug down her skirt to the top of her waist, and get a good look.

Broken sobs greet me, but I force myself to block them out as I focus on that now reopened gash. The crust that had been forming is a distant memory. _Damn it._ Her acute distress registers, clawing its way inside my thoughts. I calm my tone to gentle. “You ripped it,” I explain. “I really wish you hadn’t, Andrea. Now what are we going to do, hmm?”

Her reply is a high-pitched, moaning whine.

Back to the bandages, then. I shuffle to the wing and its “Closet” beyond, fishing out a  jeans leg. Returning, I efficiently affix it to her waist, before tugging the skirt back up, zipping and buttoning it, to hold it in place. I talk as I carry out this familiar task, saying soothing things until the agony in her wide eyes starts to fade and her expression evens out. Tears, however, are falling freely.

She must hate being seen in this condition. I would. Denial is the best option. We’ll just pretend. Andrea is not silently sobbing as if her heart has been shredded. And I haven’t had to see her at her lowest nor do embarrassingly personal things that we’ll _never_ discuss.

Patting her arm, I settle back, giving Andrea her space to grieve or adapt or whatever’s occurring beside me. “Let’s allow it to keep healing this time, and not tear it by moving around,” I say. Silence greets me. “Are you going to say anything to me today, Andrea?”

I try to keep the desperation of my question from my voice. I think I succeed.

“Nnn,” she looks down, away from me, as though she can’t even bear me looking at her.

Oh. Of course, she remembers now. Why she’s here, bleeding, hungry, and miserable. I suppose that follows. I am to blame, she’s quite right. But as long as she can stay with me, conscious, present, that will be enough. I will take anything else she flings at me. If she can just stay, that will be everything. “Are you going to stay awake today?” I ask tentatively.

She gives me such a baffled look that I meander back over my question.

_It wasn’t a difficult question, was it?_

Instead of answering, her eyelids start to droop.

“Please stay awake,” I beg her quietly. _Please_.

Her confused look sinks away into nothingness. She’s unconscious again.

I take her hand, my thumb warming her skin, connecting with it, acknowledging the thud of her pulse, and try to go back to sleep.

* * *

I wake an hour or so later feeling better than I have for three days. Andrea’s still unconscious. Glancing around, I do a  stocktake. We have water still. Quite a lot of it for now. There are berries and one packet of crisps left. I’ll save that. It’s for Andrea. As a reward if she can actually manage to stay with me next time. Incentive, perhaps?

The plane that flew over has been weighing on my mind. I had no way to signal it. What if it comes back? What I needed was a beacon. Something to light should that hum reverberate through the skies once more.

By late afternoon, I’ve created two signals. One beacon pile of wood and kindling on the beach, next to a HELP message, spelled out in rocks. The other’s not far from camp, the highest point I can easily reach. It was an odd experience, finding the wood for these piles. For a start, the trees here are peculiar. Branches start halfway up, and trunks are all smooth like someone’s rubbed them down with sandpaper and oil. Each day I find fewer branches and have to travel farther afield. Eventually, I’ll surely run out.

Andrea is still asleep so I’m rearranging the “Closet” with Nigel. T-shirts to the left; jean pants in little rolls to the right.

Giving up after a while, I go and sit beside my assistant. “It’s almost dusk, Andrea. Another day in paradise. I must say the customer service at our rustic resort leaves a bit to be desired. Perhaps we should go and remind the manager who we are?”

I said ‘we’ again. I’ve been doing that lately. My life has gone from ‘me’ and ‘my’ to ‘we’ and ‘our’. It’s an odd thing for someone like me, so used to deciding everything in the singular. Even when I was married I couldn’t resist doing it. No wonder Stephen hated me. I rarely let him have his way on anything.

But now, now when I have someone who wouldn’t care what I chose to do, I find myself consulting her often. Checking with her. And, crucially, describing her as part of me.

It’s a survivor thing, I suppose. That sense we’re all in it together. I’ve read stories about this condition. During World War II when the bombs dropped on London, as horrific as it was for the populace, it united the people in a way nothing had before or since.

So, Andrea, is now that to me. Someone to survive end times with. Someone beyond even friendship. “How do you like that?” I ask her curiously, when I tell her. “I suspect you’ll get quite a swelled head if I say any more, so let’s just leave it at that.”

I study her for a while, taking in the paleness of her skin. I wish, so much these days, I could just see those eyes, bright and focused on mine. Have her conscious for longer than five minutes and aware of her surroundings beyond an ability to swallow a reddish paste of berries or to achieve a successful ‘bathroom’ visit with me hauling her there and back.

“Where are you, Andrea?” I ask.

I want my assistant back. That sounds selfish. Besides, it’s not just my assistant who I want back. It's _Andrea_.

Guilt lances me yet again. She must truly despise me.

_Oh. Now I see._

No wonder she prefers sleep.

 

 


	4. Awake

She’s awake again. I’m not sure how smart it is of me to let hope surge, but there it is, quickening in my chest as I watch her eyes flutter open. The sun’s down and I’ve banked the fire, checked her dressing, and am contemplating our vast array of dinner menu options.

Berries? Or berries? They don’t taste too terrible when washed down with water. I’ve had pâté that’s tasted worse. Admittedly it had been off.

Cautiously, I watch as Andrea stirs, unable to stop myself from wondering how long it will be before she slips back into unconsciousness.

She has been in and out of awareness for the past three or so hours and we successfully navigated a drink and another wordless bathroom break.

This time she did actually seem more with it; evidenced by the bloom of pink flooding her cheeks when I led her to the “facilities”. That was new. Her embarrassment, however, for some reason drained my already paper-thin nerves. This is not about sensibilities. It's a matter of practicalities, More than that; it’s life and death. I absolutely will not tolerate her tearing her wound any further than it already is. _That_ is non-negotiable. Doesn’t she understand how close she keeps coming to dying? Doesn't she grasp how intolerable that is?

My jaw steels at the reminder of her pitiful whimpers earlier when she'd first tried to stand. It worsens my mood, and my tone becomes more brusque when I talk to her.

I don’t mean it. The problem is she keeps scaring me. Which only makes me grumpier.

To distract myself and not think too hard about how disappointed I’ll feel when she lapses back into unconsciousness for another day or two, I help Nigel in our Closet. I can keep an eye on her, as I’m behind her. She has the disadvantage given where she’s lying. Which is good. She doesn’t need to wonder how I’ve come by four T-shirts, a rope made out of men's neck ties, and eight jeans pant legs.

“She looks better,” Nigel tells me, nudging me.  

Not surprisingly, I don’t feel his ghostly elbow. “Mmm,” I say. “We’ll see.” I’ve been tricked before by the viciousness of hope. It’s a luxury no survivalist can dare afford. Still, though, it rises again in me. _Damn it._

“No, I mean it. I think our Six is coming to.”

That gets my attention. Sure enough, she’s twisting this way and that, as if trying to work out where I am.

I wonder what her first words to me will be? Accusations about why we’re here? Or worse, why I never went to get her on the plane?

Shame fills me. I know, all things considered, it was the safest thing to do; to exit when I did. But still. It took me too long to remember her. Too long to wonder.

Too. Long.

Her head turns a little, an abbreviated, prematurely halted movement that I realize indicates she still has an injured neck.

“Miranda?”

I pick up Toby’s half-filled cap, step into her line of sight, and offer it to her. “Water?”

“No, thank you.” She shakes her head and winces. After licking her lips as though to speak, she hesitates.

 _Here it comes._ I brace myself, nostrils flaring as I take in a deep breath.

“Have you seen anyone yet? Boats or helicopters or…?”

 _Oh._ My eyes dart all around, trying to dredge up some reply filled with diplomacy, a skill that has long fled me after a decade or so as the god in my particular domain. I shoot Nigel a look, but he’s gone again. _Really_. What _is_ the point of conjuring up an ally if he insists on departing any time the going gets tough? “No one,” I finally say.

“Have there been any other survivors around?”

“There was one other. However…” Derrick’s dead eyes fill my mind and I force out the next words through gritted teeth. “He passed away.”

“Derrick.”

She remembers him? Well. He was a decent man. He _should_ be remembered. “Derrick,” I repeat, feeling hollow. My breathing is getting deeper, harder, as not just his eyes, but Toby’s now stare accusingly at me.

_Get out of my damned head!_

“Miranda,” Andrea says in a perfectly pleasant tone. “It’s been a whole day. And… and we can’t be that far from the crash site at all.”

 _A day?_ She thinks we’ve been here a single day? I want to laugh. Or cry. What I wouldn’t do for it to have been only that long in our little vacation spot at Camp Tohellandback.

My mouth works but I can’t find the words to explain. Will this be when the judgment begins? When she realizes we’re not only lost but left for dead? When the finality of what’s been happening hits? Will the soft confusion swimming in her eyes turn cold and bleak?

 “This fire… this smoke… They have to have seen it. Right? Why haven’t they found us yet?” She’s twisting to try and get a better look at me.

 I angle myself slightly away. It’s the coward’s choice, but I can’t let her see the answers that must surely be plastered all over my face.

Her gaze darts all over me, cataloguing, analyzing. Glancing down at myself, I wonder what she sees. I’m barefoot still, although now used to it, which is fortunate as I've discovered I'm unwilling to wear dead people’s footwear. My maroon pants, sturdy though they are, are flecked with dirt and dust from the calf down, with greenish patches at the knees.

The swatch of color at my waist which I was using as a belt is gone. And I still mourn the beautiful fringed scarf Nigel gave me before I left. An up-and-coming designer we agreed I would champion to greatness. Well, those days are gone. Much like the scarf.

Andrea’s expression falters as she takes in my Anna Sui blouse. I don’t blame her; the apricot-colored garment has been through the wars. There’s a pinkish stain near the stomach, from one of the times I tended to Andrea’s wound. It never entirely washed out despite multiple attempts. The sleeve is ripped on the left, and the cuff torn from when I fled the plane.

What does she see when she looks at me? A vanquished leader? A woman who lead Andrea off the edge of a cliff? Does she ponder how the mighty have fallen? Even as I say it, I don't believe her first instinct is to jump to bitter, verbal rebuke. Besides, that’s more something I’d do. When there's someone to be blamed, you can be very sure I let the whole world know about it.

And on the topic of blame, I can’t help but wonder when we’re going to get to it. In her own, halting, carefully worded, passive-aggressive style. The waiting is… difficult.

“You, um… We don’t have to talk about it. I mean, um, if you don’t want to.”

God. I should have guessed. Far worse than Andrea’s blame is her compassion. My stomach clenches.

“No,” I tell her. I definitely don't wish to fill her in on what has transpired. I don't want her to share my nightmares. And even if she didn't, her empathy or pitying stare would be atrocious to endure. It’s bad enough she sees me like this. Lessened. Mortal. So very weak.

I drag my gaze over her, forcing myself to meet her eye. I. Will. Not. Be. Pitied. I am still strong. Despite what's happened. Despite Derrick. And the other passengers. A-and... Tob…

Oh hell. Tears prick at my eyes. _Damn it._ She's still staring at me. Oh. She expects an answer. Of course she does. 'We're here now, the past is the past, get used to it' is likely insufficient, even for me and my famously pared-back conversational style.

 _Fine_. She has to be told _something_. I purse my lips and order my thoughts. “You deserve to know.” Not everything, of course. I'll never tell her that. An edited truth? Yes.

“Miranda?” Her shoulders tense, waiting.

“There was an explosion on the turbine, I believe, because I looked out the lavatory window and the wing was gone. And then we were spiraling out of control. We were off course for an hour before… prior to the crash.” _There_. She’s a smart girl. I told her that once, didn’t I? She should work out the rest for herself. What an hour off course means in real times. In terms of our…rescue. Or decided lack of one.

I can’t take her probing gaze and glance away as I finish. “I wasn’t aware of our circumstances in the beginning, when I arrived at the beach. I waited with you for hours, expecting any minute to be rescued. When I realized it was about to become dark, I decided to use the remaining daylight to walk down the beach and search for civilization. Then I discovered Derrick’s fire, that he'd started with a lighter.”

Briefly she closes her eyes, as though placing some memory. “The flight attendant. He told you what happened.”

I nod. She’ll understand in a minute. And then, well. I’m not sure how I’ll be able to manage the flickering light of hope in those eyes fading out. Andrea has always had such remarkably expressive eyes. Brown, beautiful, sincere, kind.

“But they know we’re out here. They can track planes, right? There has to be some kind of GPS or black box or –?”

She prods me for the nuts and bolts of our situation for a few minutes, checking details. But even so, quite mystifyingly the hope remains.

“It’s only been a day," she says in exasperation.

Oh. _That’s_ why there's hope.

“We can’t have been that far off,” she continues. “We just have to keep the fire going and… ”

I can’t bear it any longer. “Andrea, it is _Friday night_.” I give her a loaded look, then bite my lip.

“No, it’s Sunday,” she shoots back, almost surprised. As if I’d gotten some fundamental detail totally wrong and she knows that’s not like me. “We left on Saturday, Miranda.”

 _Now or never._ My jaw firms. “I am well aware of when we left, Andrea.” With my eyes boring into hers, I’m almost demanding she gets it this time.

Those soft brown eyes widen. Then her face drops. Finally her mouth falls open as panic sweeps her expression. Clanging her mouth shut, she purses her lips. “Oh.”

“Yes. _Oh_.” Okay, so that came out a little mocking. But _really_. As if I’d ever get any fundamental detail wrong. In a way I resent her for making me spell it out to her. The reminder of how bad things are, is like nails shredding at me. That's not what's really eating at me. This is all my fault. And sooner or later, she’ll remember it too.

With that in mind, I park my inner bitch, and try to briefly detail the size and shape of the island, and how we are all alone.

Her face falls for the second time in a minute.

“I… oh.”  
  
_Finally_. Thank God for that. A hunger headache that’s been plaguing me off and on for much of the day decides to sink it’s talons into my head right then.

Edging myself to the ground beside her, I gingerly rub my forehead, praying for the pain to release its grip. I don’t look at Andrea, focusing instead on the throbbing. I desperately hope she doesn't want to talk any more. Maybe she can process all this without me. The conversation is making me feel worse by the minute. Now the pain is making me nauseous.

Andrea turns from me and mutters, “I’m going to sleep.”

Peering at her, I wonder if she expects a response. A few sarcastic rejoinders rise to my lips along the lines that she’s had plenty of experience of that lately. Instead, I control my tongue.

I wonder if she’ll wake tomorrow? Or maybe she’ll return to the land of subconsciousness? Or worse. A nasty tendril of doubt creeps in. Maybe she’ll desert me the way Derrick did. Now she knows there’s no hope, maybe she’ll simply decide it’s not worth it to come back. I’m not worth it.

I can’t blame her. I’ve come to the same conclusion more than once since I’ve been here.

At that depressing thought, my headache digs in harder. I turn on my side and close my eyes. But instead of sleeping, I spend much of the night listening. For the sound of her breathing.

It doesn't stop once.


	5. Human Limits

There is no more wood. I’ve scoured the island from one end to the other, and where can it possibly be? How can trees exist like this? Only branches high up, well out of my range? How does this ecosystem even exist? There’s no fauna, no beetles, no worms. I haven’t even see a mosquito since I set off at early light to try and square more supplies. Actually, I can’t recall ever seeing any insect life at all.

We’re also out of berries.

So, in sum: No more food. No more wood.

And it hasn’t rained since the first time. So, scratch drinking water too.

I’d say things are getting grim. I had a woeful night’s sleep, listening to Andrea’s breathing, convinced at any moment she’d choose to…opt out of this existence.

I don’t blame her. I wouldn't want to wake up next to me, either. I barely spoke to her yesterday. And it’s getting harder and harder to push away the fear that’s been crushing in on me the longer I see her get weaker.

If the discussion stayed away from rescues and missing passengers for as long as possible, I'd be more interested in having it. It’s hard enough to squeeze from my brain the reminder of where the passengers are. Along with the other thing. The pressing, squirming mound of…

“Guilt.”

 _Andrea_. I sigh. Ghost Andrea is back. “Go away.”

“If you wanted me gone, I’d be gone. You like having me around, don’t you Miranda? That’s why I’m here. Why you’ve condemned me to death in this tropical getaway. Just so you wouldn’t have to travel alone on your flight back to ruin Stephen’s big day.”

I purse my lips and glance around. _Have I tried the trees on the far side of the ridge?_ It’s hard to remember. My brain goes in and out of focus these days. Sometimes I struggle to remember my own daughters' names. That’s a pain I have no words for.

“Caroline and Cassidy,” Andrea says helpfully.

“I know.” I grit my teeth and glare.

“You’re afraid you’ll forget though. You wonder who you'll even be if you don’t even have your memories of them. Does a person cease to exist if they have no memories? Are we all just the sum of our experiences and recollections?”

“Get out of my head.”

“You like having me here. Someone to berate instead of yourself. Do you think your Andrea’s berating you in her head right now? Well, hating you more than usual?”

 _Is she?_ Truthfully _,_ I’m not certain what Andrea thinks of me. But, probably, yes, hate should be high up the list. I'm as demanding a boss as ever existed. But now, even more, she has grounds to put me in her column of loathed people. Especially after last night’s chat which was about as comfortable as a barefoot stroll across a fire pit. “I don’t care what Andrea thinks one way or another. She’s just an assistant.”

As lies go, it’s not quite the biggest one I’ve ever told but it may as well be given Ghost Andrea’s appalled expression. She gives a twisted parody of a laugh; one I’m quite sure my Andrea has never uttered in her life. “Oh Miranda, is your nose growing longer? You think about me all the time.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You wonder about me constantly. You’re still bothered by finding me in bed with a woman. You still worry that she’ll see that you care more for me than you should. Is that why you’re here, hiding out, far away from her, so she won’t see you start to unravel? You will soon. We both know that. Are you afraid all your secrets might start spilling out? How attractive you find her, maybe? Or how gay you really are? Perhaps how useless and out of control you feel despite that indomitable front you wear? But, fine, put some distance between her, and there’s absolutely no fear anything _unfortunate_ might be said at a weak moment.”

“Don’t be absurd. I’m gathering firewood and berries.”

“I don’t see any.”

“No. I know.” I exhale. “It’s a slight concern.” _Did I try the lower track? What about roots? People eat roots somewhere, don’t they?_ I frown, squinting to a sandy area with a few low trees.

“It’s funny that you’re not hiding from me, are you? You're not cowering from my probing questions. Only hers.”

“Hers are real. You’re not even here. How can one be frightened of an illusion?” Another lie. Not as monumental as my earlier one. The ghosts of my flight still terrify and haunt me in my dreams. Not sleeping ever again has begun to seem more attractive.

“You didn’t answer my question.” Andrea leans in, and it’s the most unnerving experience having a face so close to me that looks like hers, but isn’t, and has no heat or movement of air as it shifts. “Does she know you like her? _Like that_?”

Fury floods me. Before I can unleash a volley of vitriol, the mirage blinks out of sight.

My hands twist into balls. Tormented by my own psyche now? Well, that fits. I’ve been suppressing so much about myself for so long my subconscious probably sees a chance to fight back. I will not tolerate it though. I'm in control, I remind myself. I am Miranda Priestly. I am...more than all this.

I dust off my pants. It’s past midday now. Anger rises anew as I head back to camp, fueling my shaky steps. Anger with myself that I have failed as a scavenger today; putting Andrea at more risk. Anger that I have been hiding like a coward from her relentless questions. And fear that she will see how frail, weak, and flawed I truly am under this mask. She needs me to be strong. I can't lapse now.

I won't stand for it.

Hell no. I. Am. Miranda. Priestly.

It takes an hour to reach camp again. I stop each time I’m dizzy, and there’s little shade. My stomach growls and churns. I’m desperate for water and lightheaded with it, but I've been conscious of rationing to leave enough for her. She needs it more than I do, if she's to heal.

Cresting the ridge, my gaze settles on her once more. She’s moved. Not far, but still. What has she been doing moving? Doesn’t she understand how fragile her health is? What the hell is wrong with her?

There are telltale chunks of plastic by the fire, broken debris. A cellphone? Oh. Her Blackberry. I’d found it early on, day two or three, I think, during one of my laundry missions. I turned it on. Dead. I returned it to her pouch for her where she’d left it.

Apparently her reaction to it not working was more violent than mine. _Considerably more._

What _is_ that noise?

She’s crying. No, worse than that. Sobbing, shoulder shuddering, wrenching sobs. It pierces me like fingernails down a chalkboard; the most heartrending sound. It's like it's judging me and shredding me. I feel like the worst heel.

Setting my jaw, I move about, picking up the pieces of the Blackberry. If one of us was to tread on this, it could slash open a foot. Really, could she be more careful? And a tantrum? Over a broken phone?

Her sobbing is getting worse and I can’t bear it. Guilt slices through me, just for something completely different. Can’t she just…deal with this? Can she not…

Ugh. My old headache that’s been plaguing me off and on for hours kicks in with force. “Are you planning on ceasing this driveling any time this afternoon?” I only barely keep my tone civil. What has she got to be this distraught over? A dead phone? I’m the one being tormented by mocking spirits. I’m the one who has failed at my one duty; keeping Andrea safe and well. I couldn’t even furnish us supplies today.

She sniffs and hiccups. Her cheeks are red; more than just from sunburn and salty trails streak down her cheeks. The swelling in her eyes suggest she’s been in a state for some time.

I frown. Is she hurt? Has something else occurred? Alarm fills me. “What’s wrong with you?” I take a step closer.

“Go away,” comes her ragged plea. “Go do whatever it is you were doing all morning. Just leave me alone.”

Two more steps, and I’m bending over trying to understand, reaching for the bandage under the waist of her skirt. An injury is nothing to be shy about. This is important. “Andrea, there is no—”

 _Oh._ I stop, finally realizing the cause of her distress. The odor is, as always, unmistakable.

_That’s it? That’s all it is? This caterwauling and carry-on over nothing? A bathroom accident?  
_

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” She’s lost in a burble of sobs again.

I can’t believe it. I gape at her. It’s like the entire world is ending. Is this _really_ all there is to it?

“I tried to… I mean, I couldn’t…I couldn’t get… my… my skirt off… I tore something… or something.” Her voice is hoarse and pathetic by the end.

Dear God. How on earth does she think she managed while unconscious? Does she truly believe I haven't been dealing with her bathroom issues for a week now? I am immune to such occurences now, for heaven’s sake. Perhaps she feels I will shame her for this? What sort of monster am I to her? Or is it just embarrassment in general? And over something so... meaningless in the scheme of things? My headache thumps harder, reminding me of my lack of sleep and water. Christ. I’ve laid out decomposing bodies. Searched them. Thrown up what miniscule nutrition I had in me at the sight of those empty eyes and worse. Been judged and found wanting by Derrick in my nightmares, always telling me about the family he'll never see again. Then there's Toby, a little boy I killed.

_I killed him for you, Andrea._

And _this_ minor accident is what Andrea regards as worth disintegrating over? The same girl who brought me an unpublished Harry Potter book in a day. It makes no sense.

I want to laugh but I’m too incredulous. Then I want to shake her out of it. Doesn't she understand this is the least of what pain is? A little humiliation is nothing compared to... I almost choke. The memories, horrific and real, wash over me again and it's overwhelming. I force them back with a suppressed snarl.

 _God._ Reaching down, I grab the two belts on her skirt, haul her back out of her tiny puddle, back to where she should be sitting.

Then I remember the rest of her ramble. Didn’t she say she’d torn something?

With practiced motions, I quickly find her button and zip and ease the skirt down. I cover her, as usual, in Derrick’s jacket and remove her La Perla for yet another wash. Then I examine the wound. There’s fresh blood on the jeans. If she’s torn this in some pitiful effort to relieve herself, I will be most aggrieved.

Delicately, I peel back the denim.

Oh hell. _It’s hideous._

Not the verdict Andrea’s anxious face will be looking for. Her gaze attempts to peer down at her waist, then, giving up, searches my face.

“It’s turned… black,” I say as diplomatically as I can muster.

The smell is vile. How can she not have noticed that at least? Did she look at it? Worry courses through me. “Do you know what that means?” I demand.

“What does it mean?” Wide eyes blink back at me.

Why is she asking _me_ that? That’s why I asked her.

“It’ll be fine, Miranda.”

Andrea’s looking at me intently, as if waiting for me to offer some reassuring platitude in the face of that ridiculous attempt at optimism.

I can’t play that game. “I don’t believe this will be fine.” She’s owed the truth. I can’t provide her anything else she needs so she can at least have that.

“The doctors will look at it after we’re rescued.”

Rescued. My stomach does a lurch. Does she know what the word does to me? Round seventy of _Guilt, The Tsunami Edition_ , crashes through me. I purse my lips and wish I was anywhere but here. I'm out of my depth. All I can do is what I _do_ know. I gather up her soiled things and march down toward the beach. I can wash, I tell myself grimly. I can hang her things out. I can make her feel cleaner. But I have no idea at all on what to do with a wound like that.

* * *

It’s dusk. Her clothing is drying by the fire; but I’m worried for how long we’ll even have that. Tomorrow. I'll look for more wood tomorrow. My eyes are shut because I absolutely cannot invite conversation right now. It’s too fraught. And I’m exhausted. My nerves are at their limits.

While I was washing her delicates earlier, I saw Ghost Andrea again. Her body this time. A lump on the shore where I’d found her. And this time I cried, as I stood, ankle deep in the waves. It was too much. I hate the sight of real Andrea at times because of it. Then I feel bad for that. Not looking at her’s just easier right now.

Besides, I’m not fond of being looked at like I have the answers. That’s another responsibility.

Doesn’t she understand yet? Doesn’t she? I’m just a woman.

I’m nothing special. Not right now. Not anymore.

I’m not The Miranda Priestly.

I'm just…Miranda. My eyes clench tighter.

Later I hear, small and soft: “I apologize. I was being passive aggressive earlier… I didn’t mean to cop an attitude.”

She’s apologizing to _me_.

I won’t answer that. There aren’t enough apologies in the world to cover what I’ve done to her.

It just makes me feel worse.

“I’m going to sleep," she adds when I continue to feign sleep.

I wish I could sleep. I miss Nigel. And my girls. Now all can I hear is Toby’s mocking whisper in my head.

_“You’ll kill her with your bad medicine.”_

I think maybe I will. I didn’t kill her in the crash. Or on the beach that day. But now, here, my own ignorance will end her.

I really am just a powerless, fragile, pitiful woman. Nothing special at all.

Just...human.


	6. Remaking a Thakoon

**Day 10**

Enough of this…wallowing. That’s my first thought when I awake. Along with "still thirsty, still hungry, still here". And then, after my customary, pensive glance at my assistant's rising and falling chest..."Andrea is still alive".

Sitting up, I revisit my mind's opening thoughts for the day. I might be only human and sorely lacking in knowledge of wound-care, but I refuse to allow Andrea to simply die. We’ve come too far and it’s simply not acceptable. Not like this.

I drag myself to my feet and allow myself another brief look at the slumbering young woman. She seems paler. Or is it the early morning light? And is her breathing more ragged?

With a small sigh, I begin my morning routine; woeful as it now is. No luscious skin creams and exotic shampoos and conditioners for me. Soft fluffy towels, scented soaps, and silken bathrobes are a distant memory too. Instead, I have a bathroom comprising of three bushes, followed by a beauty regimen that entails running my tongue vigorously over my teeth and combing my fingers through my hair. Is it frizzy at the front? I think I'd rather not know. Must be due for another cleansing ocean dip. If I can manage to walk that far. My legs seem so very shaky today. The energy's draining from me more and more each day. I wonder if retaining energy is more important than cleanliness now? What a frightening thought.

Allowing myself a small sip of water from our remaining supply, I force myself not to gulp at more than we can afford. Then, with reluctance, my mind returns to my idea. A...solution of sorts.

It came to me in a dream last night, sometime just before dawn. Dead skin, cut away, doesn’t spread. Does it? I only need a cutting implement. I’m certain I found something earlier that might work. It was barely attached to the wing I dragged up from the beach. If I can just remember where I stashed it, I'll know whether it will be suitable.

On hands and knees, I dig through my pile of supplies in "The Closet".

“What are we looking for?” Nigel asks, suddenly kneeling beside me. “And is he cute? Or she?”

I roll my eyes. “There’s a sharp piece of metal somewhere around here. I just…" My eyes dart all over the piles. "I can’t remember anything anymore. It’s so frustrating.”

“Not like you, Miranda,” he murmurs. “Didn’t you tell me once your mind is like a steel trap?”

It’s odd seeing him looking so young. He has hair for a start. Just barely, but still. “Well, now my mind is a fuzzy sieve. Are you planning on helping me or mocking me?”

“I can do both.” He smiles then and if I wasn’t so focused his joke might have earned a lip twitch.

“Hey, remember when you were pregnant with the girls?” His ghostly elbow nudges me. I feel nothing. “You couldn’t remember what day of the week it was half the time. But you never let on. You just faked it till you made it. You terrified anyone into a new reality who might have dared suggest you overlooked something.”

“I don’t think I can fake surgery, Nigel. If I don’t ‘make it’, Andrea dies.”

“Well, true.” He strains his neck around the side of the wing to look at her.

I give him a sharp glance. “Not exactly full of support today, are you?”

“Sorry. You wanted lies about Six? I thought you were going for the new-truth order?”

 _Ah. That._ I say nothing for a long moment, as I move to the second pile. “I’m not sure I-I can do this,” I admit, just as I finally snag an ugly ragged piece of metal and hold it up to the light. It seems sharp enough to cut skin. But can I…can _I_ do that to her?

“Remember the time Caroline ate all the Halloween candy in one sitting on a dare?” Nigel says quietly. “Remember the disgusting ramifications? Like something from The Exorcist. Did you run screaming into the night? Or did you get down on your hands and knees and clean it up on your own so the girls wouldn’t have to face it in the morning.”

“Caroline was very sorry she'd done that.” I stop. “I’d forgotten about that.”

“Want me to remind you of that time the twins were both so sick with a stomach virus that had as a side effect, explosive…”

“Do _not_ finish that sentence.” My nose wrinkles. “I have no wish to recall the more disgusting lowlights of motherhood.”

“But my point is, terrible as it was at the time, you survived.”

“It was hardly life or death, though. One...works it out. And I had doctors and cleaners available.”

“ _After_ the fact.”

“It’s not the same.”

“So? Act like it is. Fake it. Again.”

“I don’t see how…”

“Miranda, look at it like this: Six is just another...mess, albeit a complicated one...to be cleaned up. Like that awful yellow Thakoon sundress? We both said it shouldn't have been in that show. You could have fixed his whole line in two minutes. So with Six, just like Thakoon's misstep, you just remove the offending element, make it better, move on.”

“I hardly think surgery is _anything_ like a runway show.”

“Then pretend. Force it to be like one, so you can get your head around it. Focus on what you know. Act like it’s something simple that has to be done and then do what you always do: Blow in and fix it.”

“But how will I…” I stare at the jagged monstrosity in my hands. “I’m not sure I can.”

“You can.” He offers his most impish grin, the one that makes him look boyishly handsome...or it did in the nineties. “Who convinced me to throw away my design dreams on a whim to follow a crazy blonde with fashion-magazine empire plans?”

“That was different. Deep down you wanted to do that. Secretly you didn’t want the responsibility of failing in your chosen career. And I just made myself sound like a more exciting option with less risk.”

“So that’s what this..." he flaps his hand around like a flopping fish... "uncertainty's all about? You don’t want the responsibility of operating on Six?”

I bristle at the implication. “I’ve always stepped up to responsibility.”

“So what is it?”

He _would_ demand to know that. I almost despise him for making me say it. “I don’t want her to die.” _There_. I eye him closely. “And she will, most probably, under my hands in a few short hours. And, yes, I know if I do nothing then she’ll almost certainly die. But even so, it's too much. I don’t want her to go.”

“You don’t want to be left alone?”

“No.” _And the rest. The other thing that's always there, just at the edges out of reach, like a dandelion on the wind._ My nose flares at the unsavory churning in my gut that's not all down to starvation. 

“You care about her. Maybe even a little more than that.”

“No, I would miss an acceptable assistant. We work well together.” I don't know why I bother with such a useless lie. He's just my subconscious anyway.

I gaze at Nigel’s face… the man he was before work overtook us along with relationships and life, and we lost a lot of our close friendship. It's so obvious this isn’t really him. Real Nigel would never be so bold. He knows exactly where the line is welded between us. He knows what to ask, and most importantly what not to. He never glides into sticky questions about my emotional states or hints at inappropriate thoughts about my assistant. No, this Nigel, with soft eyes and a kind face, is just me in a different form, part sounding board, part delirium. Or maybe just a sign I've already gone mad. Maybe that's closer to the truth. I am after all, sitting alone, murmuring to myself.

So, then, what does it matter if I tell him the rest? I lean into his airless, empty form, and say, “If Andrea dies, I would prefer not to persist with this futile existence any longer.” I wave at the world around me. “No, I’m not being defeatist. But, what’s the point? If I can’t even save Andrea, then I’m done, too."

He gives me a surprised look.

"I might live on hope, but I'm not a fool," I continue. "Our rescue should have occurred days ago. The odds of being found now are non-existent. I'm only going through any of this... these extremes of survival... for her. She needs that. It's in her eyes whenever she looks at me. Andrea needs me to be...to be her. _Miranda Priestly_. But when I'm no longer required to play that role... when I'm just... just Miriam Princhek, some East End nobody from nothing who no one looks up to or expects to be strong...” I fade out, picturing the shady little spot I've already decided looks like a nice place to stop fighting, lie down, curl up, and go to sleep. "Well." I straighten. "I'm tired. This is... it's all or nothing."

“I see.” Nigel nods.

I hate him for his easy acceptance. He doesn't even argue with me and I suddenly wish he would. Clearly part of me isn't yet entirely convinced that I'll...choose not to continue... if she dies. But then that obstinate part of me would likely change its mind if it saw the light fade out of Andrea's eyes. I can just see me sitting there, clutching her limp hand, hating myself more than ever. Choking on all the words I could never say. _Sorry. I know I failed you. You were special. Don't leave me.  
_

I push back the horror of that picture and gaze at my art director to distract myself. _Did he really ever have that much hair?_ My subconscious is clearly being kind.

Real Nigel would never accept my death. Sometimes I suspect he thinks I’m immortal. I suppose if you act like a god for long enough, it does stick a little.

A sudden thought occurs. How _is_ Nigel coping with word of my death? Knowing him, he’s probably overseeing the search operation personally. “Do a better job,” I inform him, wherever he is, offering a small scowl. “Andrea is counting on you. And you know how much I love to be kept waiting."

Ghost Nigel laughs softly. “I’m probably trying my best. Well, other-me. You want a hilarious thought? How do you think Emily’s coping?”

I smile, because Emily in a full-blown panic is inherently funny. It's little wonder I set her so many impossible deadlines, just to watch her flap about like a flightless bird. I always hid my amusement at her arch tirades of British disdain unleashed upon unsuspecting, baffled second assistants. I suppose that was evil of me. Right now she’s probably wailing in a fury at the airlines, threatening them with all manner of torture. I quite like that picture. I’m sure my girls would also lik…

My heart goes icy cold.

_Caroline and Cassidy think I’m dead._

Right now, my darling Bobbseys are grieving for me. Brokenhearted and in pain. Tears prick at my eyes, and I wonder how I’m even capable of it given how dehydrated I am.

“Hey,” Nigel whispers. “They'll have Greg. He was a lousy husband, sure, but a loving father. You know that. They’ll be protected and safe. It’s _you_ we have to get through this.”

“Not me,” I remind him. “Andrea. Then, if she survives, well then." I square my shoulders. "So will I.”

“Then you will.”

He’s sweet, telling me what I need to hear. I suppose I need that, since I’ve been refusing to lie to myself.

I return to the fire. Andrea needs to be informed of the situation, well, assuming she hasn’t miraculously begun recovering overnight. Which seems unlikely given that awful pallor. Today she will be…fixed. Like a bad Thakoon sundress in an otherwise acceptable showing. And that’s all there is to it.

* * *

 

Andrea is sitting up, sort of, in a slouchy, everything hurts sort of way, rubbing sleep out of her eyes. For some reason, today it's increasingly difficult to interact with her. Even knowing these may be the last moments I share with Andrea on earth, I struggle to find any words to explain I’m sorry she’s here and I know this will hurt. I’m particularly sorry I may kill her. I would miss her. Far more than she’ll ever know. Far more than she’d care, if the situation was reversed.

If she were in my heels right now, if I still wore them, I suspect she’d feel sad for my girls, moreso than over me. She’s an empathic soul like that.

Her warm brown eyes keep trying to seek out mine, as I brusquely assist her to the “bathroom” and back. Again, I turn away from that probing expression. I think I need more mental preparation for what’s about to occur. I need to be strong. Steady hands, steady focus. And…she keeps _looking_ at me.

_What? What do you want from me?_

_Haven't I done enough to you?_

I retreat to behind the plane’s wing, mentally stocktaking the items I will need, even though I’ve done it many times now. I’m too scared to look at her wound just yet, but I know from her deathly shade it’s worse. So, I can’t lose my nerve now.

When the time’s right. When I’m ready, I will look. Then I will do this. And it will be done.

* * *

 

Psyching myself up takes longer than I thought. I hover…and lord how I hate hoverers…but I do exactly that, biting my lip, trying to convince myself I will be fine. That slicing up one’s assistant is a perfectly normal thing to do when all other options have been exhausted. And really, it’s little different than…than. No, it’s not. There are no ready comparisons. As bad as that Thakoon was, it doesn’t compare to unsterile stomach surgery by untrained hands.

All right. Maybe I should look at the wound. Maybe its sheer awfulness will press me into action and then I’ll get it done. I am not a ditherer any more than a hoverer, so this delaying is driving me mad.

The sun’s high and hot now, turning me dizzy when I finally stalk over to her, eyes fixed on the waist of her skirt, determined not to waver for a second. _Just unzip, unbutton, peel back. Look. Unzip, unbutton, peel back, look. Unzip…_

“Um… yes?” she suddenly squeaks. “What are you…?”

I pluck the skirt down and open the bandage, worried that if I reply, she’ll immediately know how bad things are.

 _Oh hell._ It’s hideous. I force myself _not_ to look away suddenly because she’ll see that too.

“Do you mind asking before you do that?”

What on earth? My head snaps up to Andrea’s face. I peer at her, uncertain as to whether this is some form of Mid-West humor. Surely she must know she has an injury that needs constant attention?

Her gaze drifts over me, over my hair, my grim expression. “Also, I’m quitting.”

That is…that is so… I glare at her with a ferocity of an ice storm. How could she possibly think that’s an acceptable joke to throw at me at such a dire moment? “No, you’re not,” I grind out.

“I am.” She says it like she’s asking the day of the week.

Is she…serious? “You… what?” Does she hate me so much that she wants to be rid of me this instant? Even if it’s just mentally? I won’t have it. Besides, it’s…it’s mutiny. “You are not quitting.”

“I can’t work for someone who’s seen what you’ve seen. It’s humiliating.”

 _Oh._ I look away. Given her hysterics of yesterday, she seems to be fixating on the bathroom situation. Has she finally worked it out? That she needed assistance for however many days while unconscious? Well, that’s just ridiculous. I’ve only done what was needed. And she, too, has endured only what was needed. That’s all there is to it. Humiliation is a luxury neither of us can afford. I'm more irritated than ever when I reply. “That is irrelevant. Name an actual reason."

“It’s not up to you to decide if my feelings are irrelevant or not,” she snaps at me, eyes flinty. “And it’s not like I’ve been very good at assisting you lately, have I?”

That brings me up short. How _on earth_ does she expect to be an assistant while near death? “Are you an idiot?” I inquire. Maybe the sun has dazed her brain because she’s acting like one. “I’m going to do you the biggest favor I’ve ever done anyone and forget what I just heard.”

“I’ll remind you when we’re rescued.”

 _Rescued_. Does she say that word just to torment me? Maybe. I suppose it’s her only weapon left. It’s her right to lash out at me. Guilt, my now faithful companion, returns for a quick and insulting waltz around my head. Shutting my mouth, I nod, and focus on the task at hand. I quickly sneak another peek at the wound. _Damn it. Still hideous._ Not to mention black and evil-looking. Not even a fashion designer could manufacture a malfunction this grotesque. And I’m including the 2008 Heidi Montag zebra line in that thought.

She must have caught my motion because her neck cranes forward.

“Don’t!” My voice cracks like a fifteen-year-old boy’s. _Well, that was subtle._ “Andrea, don’t look at it.” It’s too late of course. She must have seen. Or did she? Well, even if she didn’t, my panic would tell her everything there is to know.

“I, um… okay.” There's real fear in her shuddering sigh, before she turns her gaze upward at the endless empty blueness. “Is it… um…”

“It’s fine,” I say fast before I give away anything else. _So much for complete honesty._

“Of course it’s fine, obviously. As long as I’m not looking at it.” 'Sarcastic Andrea' is not one I’ve encountered before.

With willpower, I refuse to bite.

“What does it look like?” Her voice is once again timid.

_Definite fear._

“Worse than yesterday.” I touch all around the wound, seeing whether there’s any give. But the skin feels stiff and odd, like there's no blood in it. It looks dead.

Andrea squeezes her eyes shut and I wonder if I’m hurting her. I ease up my touch a little, but she doesn’t react. Then her mouth falls open, making strange gulping sounds.

“Andrea.” I give her shoulders a small shake and lean right over her pinched face. My hands drop back to the edge of her wound. “You’re hyperventilating.”

Her eyes fly open and she whispers. “I’m sorry.” With wide eyes filling with tears and a lip trembling, she asks, “Are you touching me?”

 _Am I touching her?_ Fear skitters through me. I dig my fingers in a little harder. _No reaction._ Frowning, I reply. “Yes.”

“I can’t, um… I can’t feel it.”

“Andrea… I… this dead skin, it’s spreading. I…” I have to tell her. Or maybe she’ll guess and I won’t have to? That would be nice. She’s smart. Right? I told her that once. So I wait.

And wait.

Okay. She's not guessing. I breathe in and out then finally tell her how it’s going to be. “It needs to come off.”

“How?”

“I discovered a fragment of debris sharp enough to cut skin. If the black portions are removed from your body, perhaps what is left will heal properly.”

Andrea swallows and I wonder if she’s picked up on how much all of this is guesswork. But instead of questions and doubts, she sighs and says, “That’s…. that’s alright then.”

It is? Brave girl. Brave, brave Andrea. I give a jerky nod. “I’ll fetch it.”

“Wait – right now?”

 _When else? For God's sake. Next week after the spa treatment?_ “Yes.” Firming my voice into sarcasm, and dropping my hands back to her shoulders, I suggest in a dangerous tone, “Forgive me, did you want to call your primary physician for a second opinion? Shall I fetch the remaining shattered pieces of your cell phone and attempt to melt them back together?”

“You’re right, you’re right okay? Just – just do it.”

Sometimes I think Andrea is a lot braver than I am. All I have to do is operate. She has to put her faith, trust, hope, and life into my hands, a woman who has repeatedly shown no medical competence, and appalling judgment.

Yet she said yes.

Part of me wishes she’d just said no. It would have been simpler. But then neither of us is prone to take the path of least resistance, are we? Yes, Andrea's brave. That’s one of the things I appreciate about her. I will honor that by not losing my nerve now. Even so, my hand is shaking moments later as I gather everything I need.

“Um, Miranda,” she calls out. “Where did this pant leg around my waist come from?”  
  
I shudder. _Not now. Not that._ “Ask me something else.”

“Where did you find the Red Sox cap?”

 _Could there be a worse question?_ Right now I can’t think of one. I reappear at her side and attempt to be civil as I purse my lips and then say, “Something else.”  
  
“When did you find this shrapnel you’re talking about? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I found it on the beach while you were unconscious. Monday morning.” _Do not ask me where I found anything else_ , I beg her silently.

“Why won’t you tell me where you’re getting these clothes? It’s from a suitcase, right?”

Oh God. She thinks I’ve been unpacking people’s suitcases on the beach? What I wouldn’t give for that to be the truth.

Before I can answer, she lifts an eyebrow and adds: “Is there a Gap on the island I’m not aware of?”

 _Will this be our last conversation?_ If it is, I hope these aren’t her last questions because I’ll snap at her. And if I snap at her, and then she dies, I’ll regret it. “I’ll tell you when you can stand up without gushing blood like a water hose.” I return to my little area out of sight behind the wing, and start sharpening the ragged metal against a rock. It makes a sickening scraping noise.

“Do you—”

Her question falls away when I return, holding my “scalpel”. It has ragged edges, black scorch marks and a wet edge from where I was sharpening it just now.

Terror floods her face. “You’re using that?”

Everything about her body language tells me this will be a fight. I can’t back down now, even though her fearful eyes start my stomach churning again. _Focus! She needs you to be strong._ “Hold still,” I tell her with a firm voice, the one that gives clackers meltdowns at _Runway_.

“You’re not… I don’t—”

“You are going to do this.” Crouching, I give her a firm look, my eye close to hers.

 _Don’t back down now!_ I wonder if that thought was for her or me.

“Maybe you should, um... tie me up. Or something.”

Oh. That’s not a terrible idea. “That is an option.” Is she saying the pain will be so bad she may run screaming from me? I suppose it’s good to have a head’s up, if that's the case.

“I don’t, um…” she bites her lower lip, “I don’t know if I can do this.”

 _That makes two of us._ But I can’t want this for both of us. Can’t she see? If she buckles, I will too? And we’re better than this. Or we damned well should be. Especially after what I've gone through to keep her alive. My resolve hardens. “No.” My voice is cool and direct. “Yes, you are doing this, and no, you have survived for too long to cede defeat and you have lasted for too long to give up on me, after… everything that’s happened.”

I stare at her, well glare, more accurately, warning her not to ask me to elaborate.

After an eternity, where she’s searched my face, and allowed a multitude of vulnerabilities and emotions to streak across hers, she finally nods. “Tie me up then. I… I need that, at least. Use the scarf. Or something.”

* * *

 

“Try to move,” I order her. As she wiggles, I decide it will do. It's not bad, even if she does look somewhat hog tied. It’s possibly a little overkill. It was my fear doing the knotting, after all. I rattle a white pill bottle I found in an old woman’s pocket. Tylenol PM. “I found these.” I wait for permission. I wouldn’t appreciate the irony of saving her life only for her to die from some unknown allergy to painkillers.

After an approving nod, I examine the bottle closely, scowling, trying to make out the label without my reading glasses. I’m probably long overdue for a check-up. _I’ll get Andrea to schedule me an optometrist appointment, shall I?_ Lovely. Now even my own inner voice is mocking me. “Over 12 years… two tablets… motor vehicle…”

“Just give me ten.”

Ten? Is she certifiable? “Are you seeking liver damage in addition to your current injuries?”

“It might knock me out.”

Hmm. That’s not a bad point. I shake the pills out into my hand. Both our gazes fix on the three pathetic blue caplets now in my palm.

“Hurray for my liver.”

How she can find humor in any of this is beyond me. I reach for Toby’s cap which I've already topped up with water, and wait as she takes the pills and then a sip.

“Thank you,” she says.

I mmm, in reply.

“How long should we wait? For the um, pills to take effect?”

Consulting the bottle from three different angles until my eyes focus, I say with authority, “Thirty minutes.” It doesn’t actually say on the label. But it always took the girls about half an hour to feel anything when I gave them medication. And Andrea seems pleased to have an answer.

* * *

  
Okay, so there's a slight flaw in our scheme. We’re sitting here, waiting impatiently, while Andrea’s tied up like a rodeo bull. But if I offer to untie her, what if she changes her mind? We can’t have that. Best to say nothing.

So. I don’t say a thing. We just sit there. While she's tied up. Both saying nothing. At all. Like this is normal.

_Why is she twitching her nose like that? Is she a rabbit?_

I don’t ask. She doesn’t tell.

* * *

  
“So what else have you found, besides the man, um…”

 _Oh lovely. She wishes to rake over the worst wounds to fill in time._ I’m back at the wing, out of sight, as I mentally prepare for what’s ahead. “Derrick,” I respond sharply. “And I do not wish to speak of this with you.”

Maybe she’ll take a hint?

“Alright,” she says.

_Hallelujah._

“Later though?”

Christ. Still, if there _is_ a later, I’d probably grant her anything she wants. “Later.”

_Please let there be a later._

 

* * *

  
“I was serious about quitting, you know.”

I exhale in a whoosh, my eyes popping open. I’ve been trying to meditate, out of her view, to get my mental strength up for the task ahead. One of my yoga instructors taught me how, years ago, but it isn’t working. I can’t focus. My head’s a mess, my hands keep trembling, I keep hearing Toby’s mocking in my head about how I'll kill her with my ignorance. And now my assistant has decided to remind me her mutiny will be forthcoming.

“I know,” I inform her. “However, I will not be accepting your resignation until we are on American soil.” That should keep her quiet for a while.

“I quit,” she announces again, this time sounding triumphant, like she’s won her freedom from an overlord.

 _Charming._ Still, I’d quit me too. And long before now. “How is the medication affecting you?”

“I’m not tired at all.”

Of course she isn't. That would be too much to hope for. I press my hands down against the dusty, dark cotton pants on my thighs, willing the perspiration covering them to cease at once. And where's that calming strength my yoga instructor promised would fill me? More incompetence.

I’m still waiting fifteen minutes later for a steadying calm, when I finally decide Andrea’s had long enough. Besides, my nerves can’t take it anymore.

* * *

  
“How do you feel now?”

“Wide awake.” Her eyes skitter to the blade I’m holding, if you could call it that, and the fear shines from them like lighthouse beacons.

I hesitate.

“It doesn’t matter,” she says quickly, as if she can read my mind. “It has to be done.”

I suppose so. The trembling in my hands increases, and I force my left hand into a savage fist, before returning it to the implement. I have to be brave now. She’s being brave. I search around for something to chase that terror from her pitiful brown eyes. An incentive. “I discovered a box of chips,” I tell her. “From the airplane. They’re salt and vinegar flavored.”

“Huh?” Well the fear’s gone but now she just looks confused to the point of baffled. “You’ve…”

“We ate them all save one bag while you were unconscious.”

She squints at me, her mouth opening and closing a few times. Finally she says “You’re conserving the last bag?”

“You can have it when this is over with. Tomorrow morning, when you are healing properly.” There. Incentive is a powerful tool, is it not? I’ve used it effectively with my staff over the years. I remind Nigel often that one day he’ll be in charge of Runway. I politely promise Irv I won't mention the names of his mistresses to his wife should Runway's CEO become intransigent on my budget. And I give my assistants an occasionally approving look when they please me. Which so far has amounted to three in nineteen years. But still, they live in hope.

So, this should work. Chips in exchange for Andrea's life? Does that sound as pathetic to her as it does to me?

“Right.” She nods, as though girding herself, and relief courses through me.

We’ve made a pact. She has accepted the terms. She will live.

_She will._

Andrea glances at me, wiggling her hands against her knots. “We’ll split it. Now get this over with.”

 

* * *

  
Her screams are worse than my own during childbirth. The noise is ragged, grating, sharp, and terrible. There’s so much blood. Oh God, there’s so, so, so much blood. I’m not sure what to do. Panicking, I shoot her a frantic look. “Stop bleeding!”

Blood is all over her blouse, her legs, and mine, and it’s … I need bandages. Why didn’t I think of this first? All that time waiting, and I could have had a pile of the T-shirts right beside me and…

She screams again as I do my best to both cut the dead skin and contain the bleeding. My headache is back, thundering in my skull, my eyes are watering, and this tool thing was not made for what I'm doing.

_She’s going to die._

“Told you.”

 _Fuck off._ I don’t even look up. I’m not sure if Toby’s here and that was his voice, or it’s my own internal withering critique. Her blood is spilling on the ground, coats my arms and her torso. Her eyes are white with panic.

We need…something. Something to seal the wound, something to stop the flow.

_How does flesh stop bleeding? How does…_

A steak comes to mind. Oh! I don’t even stop to think. Grabbing the cutting tool, I rush over to fire, shoving it in the flames, waiting as it heats up, hot enough to scald my hand at the other end. That has to be enough. There's no more time. She's bleeding too much.

When I rush back to her side, her eyes are shut. _Maybe she’s passed out? Please let that be all it is. Please._ Still, it’ll make searing her considerably easier.

* * *

  
“Stop! Stop it! STOP!”

Turns out she wasn’t unconscious. I sit on her waist to stop her thrashing, but Andrea's raw power is incredible. She bucks me off once, but I’m back on her in a flash. We need to do this now, before the metal cools off, before I lose my nerve, and before she knocks me out cold with her long, thrashing limbs.

I press down again, sickened by the sight, while simultaneously trying to block out her howls. She’s already shredded the scarf tying her up; wrenched it apart like paper. I press down, again and again around the edges of the wound, working my way to the middle.

 “Stop! Stop! St – st—” Her words die out, her lips are now crimson from where she’s bitten into them.

Now she’s mewling like a dog caught in a steel trap. I cannot stop the aching of my heart at the sound. I feel like the lowest person in existence right now. Desperately, I try to drown out the sound with one of my own. _Don’t die, don’t die, don’t die._

I swear if she dies now, I’ll never forgive her. I'll... I'll fire her for insubordination.

This is torture. It’s probably the only thing we agree on right now. I lean in and press again, recoiling inwardly at the stench and sizzle.

 

* * *

  
She’s alive.

And she definitely hates me. _Definitely_. If I had any doubts about that before, they're erased.

That’s fair. I'd hate me too if someone had inflicted agony on me and refused to let up even for a moment, despite me begging them to. I'd also hate them for seeing me like that. At my lowest, my worst. Little better than animalistic in my mewling, shattered brokenness.

When I was finally finished, I flung that twisted piece of metal away, disgusted by the hateful sight of it, wishing I could throw it off a cliff. I’m too weak for that now. My whole body is trembling. Legs, arms, hands. I can’t stop shaking. I can barely walk. Her screams fill my head and the look of betrayal and terror in her eyes when she...  _begged_ me to stop hurting her, pummels my brain constantly.

She must understand that I had to do it. Right?

That’s the thing though, isn’t it? I hang my head. I didn't even warn her. I should have at least paused long enough to ask permission first. Or to at least explain what was about to happen, so she could prepare. I flick at my blood-soaked cuff in disgust. But, no. I did what I always do: Just barrel through, caring little for inconvenient things...like permission.

No wonder she wants to quit.

She looks at me now like I’ve abused her. From the corner of my eye, Andrea’s face is swollen and puffy with tears, her lip fat and bloodied, and her expression defeated.

I hate myself for giving her that look. For doing what I had to.

And I _had_ to. I did. I know that. She must too. Somewhere, deep down. Still, guilt claws at me at how I never even hesitated. Never even spoke to her or calmed her or…or anything. I did nothing a decent human would have done. I just shut her out. I was so focused on getting through the hell of it all that I ignored her.

But it was the only way. _It was._ Well, for me. And..and she’s alive. The bleeding stopped, didn't it? Okay then. So the ends justified the means.

I firm my jaw until it aches, forcing aside the doubts. That reminds me. My finger pauses, tracing along my wet, spattered cuff. I’m still a bloodied mess. I should probably look at cleaning up. Both of us.

I will. As soon as I can move again without shaking like a leaf. And as soon as Andrea will allow me near her. However, I wouldn’t blame her if she asks me to stay far away for a long, long time.

Andrea sniffs, sort of a choking sob, more accurately, somewhere across from me. She sounds miserable and broken. I don't look at her. She doesn't look at me.

She hates me now.

But Andrea is alive.

 


End file.
